Dead Man's Guilt
by TheLizardLady
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is feeling so guilty having to watch the disintegration of John Watson's life, so much so he can't take it anymore * Swearing in newest chapters, Also has medium level homosexuality - Warned
1. Chapter 1

**Basically i have never submitted anything on here before and fancied a go, its more to practise my style of writing, so any tips would be great, also if anyone sees any errors, change in tenses, confusing sentences or anything let me know. **

**Hopefully though it will be mildly enjoyable.**

**I dont own any of the characters from the BBC Sherlock Series, i might add my own along the way though.**

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><p><span>Dead Man's Guilt<span>

Chapter One – The Fallout

After three years the name of Sherlock Holmes had become a distant memory for most of London, and nothing more than a whispered scandal even then.

It was a grey Wednesday afternoon in February when a group of individuals, who had once been thrown together, sat alone and felt the same emotion. Guilt.

Detective Inspector Lestrade sat, slouched at his desk at Scotland Yard police station, a drink of coffee laced with something stronger clutched in his hands. He had tried to tell himself over and over again that believing Donavan and Anderson had been the right thing to do, but three years on, although he had the world convinced he was fine, inside the angry serpent of guilt still writhed in his gut. Greg knew that if he'd have listened to his heart, he would have stood up for his friend. Yes, he thought, despite everything Sherlock said, the once fiery D.I counted him as a friend. And he was to blame for the death of this friend, this completely individual man, unlike anyone else on earth. A new wave of despair crept over him and he slumped still further forward until his forehead rested upon the cold, hard wood.

Somewhere, in an undisclosed location, another man sat bolt upright, staring into an unlit fireplace, blinking seldomly and clutching the handle of a broken umbrella. Mycroft Holmes sighed as he stood up and walked to a grand bookcase and lazily stroked the spines of many wizened books, he continued this down the rows until his hand came to rest upon a wizened book with an emerald green cover, tattered and torn. For a few moments he stared at the book, not really seeing the title or the damage it had undergone. His thin fingers closed around book and he gently lowered it from the bookshelf, his brow creasing as he did so. It was the correct book, there was never any doubt, but would the thing he remembered still there? Before he had managed to settle himself back into the arm chair, something thin, possibly a disconnected page, floated to the soft carpet. It just so happened that this was exactly was Mycroft was looking for; thusly he crouched elegantly and picked it up before leaning on the arm of the chair.

The object was an old photograph, yellowing on its white back and with a corner torn; nevertheless the figures in the image were still discernible. Smiling up at him from the picture was his own self, 20 years previous, recognisable but very different. It was a tired smile, a smile that said, 'Please, get this over with I don't want to sit here a minute longer'. Thinking back, Mycroft remembered the grassy hill where he sat casually in the sunshine those many years ago. He didn't need to remember why his smile was so forced, because next to him, glowering at the camera with an obvious look of distaste and annoyance was a young man, a boy even, with unruly black hair and a severe face. The piercing gaze of his younger brother sent a pang of guilt into the pit of Mycroft's stomach. Despite their differences and their arguments, the petty feuds and the rivalry, the idea that his brothers remains were rotting, ordinary and useless, below ground, was an idea that made him feel sickened with himself. His brother had died because of his desperate need for information, a trade off with Moriarty, the greatest criminal mastermind the world had ever seen. The price was Sherlock's life, and it had been much too high.

There was one more person who was wracked with the same endless and terrible feeling because he had all but cause Sherlock's death. In his mind, certainly, John Watson felt entirely responsible.

He sat in his therapist's office, her eyes bored into him, he could hear other patients coughing in the waiting room or striking up a conversation. Every day he was surrounded by people, to and from work, on the bus, in the shop, but inevitably he was still completely alone.

John had tried to continue life as he had done before, and to a great extent he had. His life was tedious, pointless and nothing ever happened to him, much like when he had returned from Afghanistan. But there was no point denying, his soul was broken now too. Another wound gained from a different type of war. A war of emotion, a war of memories, a war against guilt, in which guilt was always the victor.

There were two more people that felt guilty, but this was for entirely different reasons. Molly Hooper was jumpy, quick to colour and always ready for a fight. It had not always been so, but as she was defending a secret so colossal that lives could be made or ruined by it, she became increasingly erratic in her behaviour. Molly felt guilty whenever she bumped into the few people in London still grieving for Sherlock Holmes. By 'bumped', she supposed it was more like spying on, to them it seemed an odd coincidence, for her it was just following his orders.

Sherlock Holmes sat alone in a small cottage in Switzerland, rolling a small rubber ball between his fingers and occasionally glancing at the screen of his laptop. It had been just under three years since he had planted a small camera in a tree overlooking his grave and he had lost count of the number of times John Watson had visited the black slab. It was usually on a Wednesday, before a visit to his therapist that John frequented the melancholy plot, absent of many flowers or cuddly toys or cards of bereavement. It had struck Sherlock that, unlike most human, John was not successfully going through the grieving stages. Instead, he noted that John had lost even more weight, his hair was greying at an alarming rate and there were yet more wrinkles creeping onto his face.

It was rare for John to bring flowers to the grave anymore which is why on a colourless afternoon on a Wednesday; Sherlock Holmes leaned forward towards the screen to examine the bulky object that John was carrying towards the gravestone. He tutted as he also realised that John's limp had returned; a bad day then. The tut turned into a long, slow intake of breath as Sherlock watched John lower the bulky object and heard him speak, 'It's supposed to snow this week, as early as tomorrow maybe, so,erm,' John paused, looking around him and missing the camera, 'I brought you one of my jumpers. It's the big porridge coloured one, I think you liked it, deep down, when you weren't trying to burn holes in it.' Sherlock saw that John tried, and failed to smile. 'Obviously you can't wear it. But it's too baggy for me now. I thought though, that maybe one of your homeless network might visit and they could have it. It was either that or the bin so…' Johns voice trailed off, he screwed his eyes up tight and Sherlock realised he was holding back tears. 'I'm going to see my therapist, I know you don't like her, but at least, it's someone. She doesn't try to hug me or pat my knee like everyone else. I hate it when they do that because they think they know what we meant- what you meant- how I- how much I-'each time he spoke, Johns voice got more and more strained. Sherlock had seen this many times, John searching for words that were hidden in the darkness of confusion and grief. John hugged the jumper close to him one last time and placed in on the sodden, grassy mound. He was crying again and his limp worsened as he walked away. Yes, Sherlock had witnessed John's grief over and over again, and every time his heart broke a little more. He could reduce people to tears with mere words and not care, whither people with a look and not even register it, but to be the cause of John Watson's ever continuing pain, caused Sherlock Holmes more guilt than he had ever thought it possible to bear.

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><p><strong>Its more of a prologue than a chapter. Comments feedback appreciated :) **


	2. Chapter 2

**Ok, so a few people are following this story which i am truly greatful for. Can someone please comment, just because i am not sure how to see my comments and if i actually have any. Hope you like this chapter. Again, any critique is appreciated.**

**So John is feeling rubbish still, there is slight-man love, but its just extreme friendship - not really romantic (not yet anyway, might develop it, any thoughts anyone?) **

**Enjoy :) **

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><p>Chapter 2 – Tears and Defeat.<p>

'Why do you blame yourself John? You didn't push him.' His therapist spoke deliberately, slowly, as though she feared his reaction, which, as she had learnt, was wise. John tightened his hands on the arms of the uncomfortable wooden chair and he could feel her flinch. It would be the third chair he'd have thrown across the room, if he didn't keep his temper. John couldn't meet her eyes as he spoke, 'I didn't stop him either. I just watched and listened. I didn't act; I didn't even make much of an effort to stop him. I could have got on my knees and begged, threatened to follow him, but I just stood there and watched him.' He looks up at her, his face haggard and tortured, the wrinkles on his forehead seemed etched into him like carvings in hard rock. 'I've seen bad things before, horrible. But for some reason, every night when I sleep I see him falling and falling and falling and I still do NOTHING!' he shouted the last word and stood up. He could see the panic in her eyes and he didn't care, he was glad she was scared. It was a small tear out of the corner of her eye that made rethink the continuation of his yelling. He had been coming to the office every week for so long, probably repeating himself over and over again and never once had she been moved to tears. John sat back down, starting to feel ashamed of himself, she always tried to help and he never really thanked her for it, she just existed to him, no emotion attached. He coughed, embarrassed once again, 'Sorry, 'he didn't meet her eyes. She leant forwards forcing him to look up at her face, 'John. This is our last session, I'm not helping you, I can't help you. I will refer you to another psychologist but I will no longer council you, there's nothing I can do.' John frowned at her, wondering if she had ever been defeated before. She looked older suddenly and John felt bad because he knew who was to blame. He didn't question her, or feel annoyed or disappointed; he just took the slip of paper bearing a name and an office number and left. He heard her sniff and let out a wavering sigh as he closed the door behind him.

John decided to stop off at the morgue on the way home to see Molly, she had taken Sherlock's death almost as badly as he had, snapping at anyone who asked how she felt about it, she seemed twitchy and jumpier than she had done previous to the whole thing. John supposed that she too felt guilty, she had after all dated the man that had caused Sherlock's death, and although it wasn't anything to do with it, her naivety had stopped her poisoning moriarty each time they had gone for a drink to the local pub together. Even so, John didn't blame her; she was one of the few people who he still spoke to.  
>He thought about all the things that had changed since Sherlock's untimely demise. Lestrade was now a name that still caused him clench his fists, if he hadn't believed the jealous stupidity of Donavan and Anderson, he and Sherlock would not have been made outcasts, criminals, and they wouldn't have had to flee for their freedom. Sherlock would not have jumped. Then again, John never truly believed he had jumped, or rather by his own free will. Moriarty's body was found with a bullet hole in the top of his head, which had meant the gun was in his mouth as the trigger was pulled. The tabloids claimed that Sherlock had murdered Moriarty, or Richard Brook before killing himself. John had managed to bully lestrade into sneaking him the police report, what struck him as odd was that Moriartys death appeared to be suicide. John has suspected that after messing with Sherlock's head he had forced him to jump off the ledge at gunpoint; the evil man would then have realised that his purpose in life was over, he only ever lived to torment and play games with Sherlock; he would never have an equal. This would have caused this extremely disturbed man to kill himself. At least, that's what John thought. He considered posting it on his blog, to share his suspicions to the public but he could only bring himself to write 'He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.' It was possible that no-one except him even cared anymore; even Mycroft had stopped popping in for a little chat.<p>

He stopped outside the familiar door of 221b Baker Street. No matter how hard he tried, and how often people told him it would do him good, he could not move out. He told people it was because he couldn't be bothered with the hassle and that the rent everywhere else seemed extortionate, the truth was though, that John Watson could feel Sherlock in the flat, there were so many memories; each scratch on the kitchen counter, dent in the table, stain on the carpet from some viscous liquid was like a little piece of Sherlock, a jigsaw of memories. Of course, the place looked a little different since Mary had been allowed to make changes. There was a large candle on the fireplace, in place of the skull, an ornate rug has been placed on the floor to hide the worn carpet, the cushions on the sofa and in the plush armchair matched the rug, and the new curtains. It didn't matter what she changed really, John merely saw the old furnishings and objects imprinted over the new ones, like shadows. He wasn't sure how long he'd stood outside the door, but he realised that it must be raining as his face was wet. There were no puddles on the street, and no clouds in the sky.

Mary was singing when he entered the sitting room, (it wasn't really a living room anymore). Some song about love and eternity and all such nonsense. John listened to her voice, it was high and breathy, not unpleasant, just not professionally trained, he liked to hear music in the flat, it wasn't quite Bach's Violin Concerto in G Minor, but it wasn't the eerie and soul swallowing silence that had dominated his life for nearly two years after Sherlock had died. John shuddered at the thought, despite his continuing weight loss; he had come on leaps and bounds. It had been hit and miss whether he was committed to some sort of clinic. John had frightened people, at the start. He didn't eat, he didn't speak, he barely spoke, he just refused to believe that his friend was dead. He kept checking his phone, looking at the door expecting Sherlock to breeze through, his eyes a whirl of fire and excitement as per usual. He had even been escorted by two police officers away from the morgue after he had tried to break in and see Sherlock's body again. That was only the things that people knew about. Mrs Hudson hadn't seen him cocooning himself in Sherlock's duvet the first month; Mycroft hadn't seen him clawing at the mud of the graveside with his bare hands, telling himself there couldn't be the body of his partner rotting away beneath him. Or at least, he didn't think Mycroft had seen. He didn't know that Sherlock had.  
>'John?', Mary had spotted him staring into space, eyes glacial, lingering unconsciously on the floor where he had once found Sherlock lying face down, apparently dead (the reality had been merely a test to see how much a man could see lying in that position). 'Sorry, just, ya know' John forced a strained smile. It was one of those days where he couldn't focus on ordinary things, his mind was on Sherlock. Mary knew this, and every time she saw the same look in his eye, It broke her heart; she always knew she would be second to this man she had never met. 'Did you bring the milk?' she tried to make light of the already odd atmosphere, instantly she knew she'd said the wrong thing. John didn't have to say it; he'd said it before <em>'Sherlock always asked that'. <em>Mary felt tired all of a sudden, she knew John was wearing her out, but he'd had enough pain to last him a lifetime, and she wouldn't leave him. She was going to marry John Watson, she had meant it when she said yes, and now she would see it through to the end. Whatever end.

Mary Morston had first met John Watson one year and two days after Sherlock had died. She only knew this because John had told her. She volunteered as a grief counsellor , not having lost anyone herself, save a grandmother when she was three and a grandfather at 9 she had always felt foolish, but it was John that made her feel like a total fraud. His pain at the loss of his friend brought her to reality; she didn't know what she was doing. It was at that moment that she made him her personal project; she would learn what true grief was and heal it. The first of her goals were fulfilled almost immediately, the second was still on-going and seemed impossible. She hadn't meant it to become a romantic attachment, but on a good day John was charming, funny, generous and a brilliant listener. She was a nursery school teacher and John loved to hear about her day, the finger paintings, the sandbox antics, he relished the thought of her inspiring young minds. At least that's what he told her.  
>The truth was far less romantic. John liked to be with Mary because she talked endlessly and was convinced the occasional nod. What really went on in Johns head was the repetitive reliving of Sherlock's fall, or their chases together through the streets of London, or sometimes just taste of coffee the way Sherlock made it. Occasionally she would interest him, it was more physical than emotional, something to distract him from a monotony of life. As time passed, she became a fixture, a comfort blanket, the one that made his dinner, walked him home from the pub when he had to many drinks, rocked him back and forth when he woke up in the middle of the night weeping and choking on his own breath. He hadn't even noticed her affections dwindling and her eye wandering, it had been Harry that had noticed it; 'You'll lose her John, I don't want you alone again, you need someone in your life' the look on John's face had said it all, <em>'I need Sherlock in my life. But I can't have him'. <em>

He had popped the question on Valentine's Day, they had been living together in Baker Street for a few months and it seemed the appropriate social convention. He had been surprised and also slightly devastated when she had said yes. Since then she had attempted to get him to help her plan the wedding. John didn't care about the colour scheme, or the cake. He wasn't interested in seating plans and chair covers, his mind wandered when she spoke of flowers and invitations and matching waistcoats. He didn't want a Best Man.  
>It had been the bridesmaid's dresses that Mary had been rambling on about this time. John realised that once again he had been chasing ghosts as she had sat there planning what should be the happiest day of her life. They both knew it was more like a life sentence; a hearse should be in place of vintage soft top.<br>Mary placed the bridal magazines and fabric samples on the new Ikea coffee table, which John despised and ran her hand through her auburn hair. For some reason John only noticed her beauty when she was miserable. He supposed it was the closest they got to being connected. Hey green eyes begged him to speak; her lips were full and pleading. 'John, do you still want to get married to me?' The question didn't faze him, he robotically said yes as he had trained himself too, this time she did not accept this. 'John' she said more forcefully, 'I don't mean we have to break up, it just seems pointless organising all of this, spending money if you're happy… if you're alright as you are. As we are.' His silence did nothing to reassure her, but he honestly didn't care. Cruelty was just part of him, as was anger, pain. Mary stood up, tears in her eyes, like the psychologist, she felt defeated, whatever she did, however she acted, it was never enough, and it never would be. She knew that now and yet she still couldn't leave him. Her heart could love enough for both of them.

'Mary. I wish I could give you the things you deserve. Not flowers or veils or wedding rings, other things. Kindness, happiness-'

'You do John!'

'-Love.' He sensed her tense up. He had told her that he loved her, when they lay together; when she had said it, he had said it back.

'You love me as much as you can and it's all I ask'

'NO, Mary.' John didn't mean to sound harsh but he needed her to understand. 'I'm broken, my heart doesn't work properly anymore, I don't know why. I never loved him, but now I can't love anyone else because they're not him. I don't understand. Don't you see? I don't understand why I can't let go and it's killing me. I'm not better, you can't fix me.' By the look in her eyes he could tell she wasn't grasping what he was saying, or if she was she was dismissing it. He often said hurtful things, but begged forgiveness later. 'I'm going to the shops to get milk. I won't be long John.' As soon as she had left John stood up. He felt angry, _Why was she so stupid? Why wouldn't she just get the hint and leave? He didn't deserve her love, he was pathetic and useless and wasting away. He was ruining her, day by day, leaving her hollow and empty like him and yet she wouldn't shout at him, tell him she hated him and walk out. _He swore loudly and reached for the magazines, tearing at them, throwing them across the room. He picked up the coffee table and hurled it at the mirror above the fireplace; he kicked at the spindly stand in the corner of the room that held a pot of pouperi. John didn't want these things here, he didn't want scented candles or rugs or curtains. He realised now that it they weren't memories in the flat, they were nightmares. Woven into the patterns of the wallpaper were codes and images of a former life – a life that no matter what John did he could forget. He couldn't leave, he couldn't move on because no matter what anyone said he could not accept, no, _believe_, that his friend, his partner, the one human being that gave him a real life was dead. Every fibre in Johns being screamed at him that every day that passed was a lie. Sherlock couldn't be dead because if he was, John would be forced to follow him.

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><p><strong>So it's looking pretty grim at the moment, it's gonna be an angsty one! Hope to get the next chapter up soon ( i need to write it first!) Please comment, just to check i can actually get them, i am a newby :P<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi, this was a bit later than expected. I want comments on how i described John's emotions - also there are slight homo erotic notions, but don't read too much into that just yet :P**

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><p>Chapter 3<p>

Graveside Revelations

It could have been minutes or several moonlight nights that John sat alone in the flat which he and Sherlock had once shared. For all John knew, Mary wouldn't be coming back this time, but he believed she would. She always came back, no matter how angry he got or how horrible he was to her, ever faithful Mary returned with milk and biscuits for a resolution. John hated her for it.

He bit his lips till they bled, going over and over the last three years in his mind, flashes, blurry images like watching a film on fast-forward. At some point he had gone mad, totally lost his mind and he was retracing his life to figure out exactly when. Had it been when he had seen Sherlock fall? Or when he had seen the coffin lowered into the ground? Perhaps it had been when he had followed a man on three different tubes because he wore a similar coat to Sherlock. Either way John Watson was almost certain that he was crazy; he had to be because everyone else had moved on and he still awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of his own yells and screams. In a moment of perfect clarity John realised that the only reason he felt like this is because he didn't believe Sherlock was dead, he never had and never would unless he had evidential proof, proof that was lying buried in a cemetery just a cab ride away. In the future John would look back and remember what happened in the next few hours as the lowest, most ridiculous and yet most brilliant of his life. At that moment in time however, digging up Sherlock Holmes' half rotten corpse seemed like the greatest idea anyone had ever had.

John was of course rational in his thinking, it was cold and dark and therefore he required a heavy coat, a woollen hat and the thick pair of leather gloves that Mrs Hudson at bought him the previous Christmas. His brain also told him that digging with his bare hands would be nigh on impossible and that he needed a spade of some sort. However, John did not have an appropriate grave digging spade and found himself annoyed at this. In reality, it was precisely this moment that John Watson had finally gone a little bit mad. Nevertheless what would have to do was a snow shovel bought years ago, in fear that if heavy snow did settle, he would be trapped with a restless and increasingly frustrated detective. So, snow shovel in hand and reckless determination firmly in his hear, John left 221B Baker Street and promptly hailed a cab. The driver looked questioningly at the man in the back of his car, but having heard some of the tales told by other cabbies that had picked up from Baker Street he thought twice about enquiring as to the use of the snow shovel on a night where there was a misty rain, but definitely no snow. John ignored the drivers look of agitation on divulging his destination and drifted into a dreamlike state where exhuming dead bodies of former best friends was an everyday occurrence. This in fact worked so well that without realising it John found himself standing in front of the cold black slab without remembering if he'd paid the taxi man.

His throat became tight as he stared at the name emblazoned in gold upon the black marble. By moonlight especially the headstone was elegant and beautiful, almost, but not quite striking enough for the person who lay several feet beneath it. _No,_ thought John,_ He's not down there, that's why I'm here, to prove that there's no body. And if there is one… _His mind through up a wall, it hit him hard, his breathing became shallower. _What if there is a body down there? What if I dig up my best friend? _The image of unearthing a decomposing body was foul enough but to gaze upon his best friend, putrid and hellish, with holes for eyes and pieces of flesh dissolving from his face… Bile rose in throat at the mere thought. _NO! There is no-one down there. Sherlock is not dead. _John held in a roar of frustration, he had come so close to finding out if his religion was false and yet he couldn't steel himself to seek the truth, to know once and for all. He realised he had to. He had rake up the soil, smash and tear open the coffin, he had to look upon the decaying face of Sherlock Holmes to once and finally move on with his life, _or_ small voice in the back of his mind said _to end it. _

He began slowly, gently moving the soil aside, barely disturbing the grass that had sprouted, but after about five minutes curiosity took over and he raised the makeshift spade above his head before driving it into the sodden earth with a satisfyingly wet thump. The first small mound was easier to shift, but after three or four heaps of soil had gone cascading into the darkness over his shoulder John became weary, his hair stuck to his head with sweat, the hat has long been discarded and he decided that his jumper should follow. Taking hold of the knitted material John began to pull the heavy jumper over his head. At the precise moment when his head disappeared inside a mass of brown wool he heard a cracking of a twig, the rustle of leaves and the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming closer and closer. Ordinarily John ignored any other signs of life in the cemetery, not much caring if anyone heard his drawn out grief stricken speeches but it was late at night and he was digging up a body, there were laws against that sort of thing. His heart stopped but he yanked the jumper of his head and peered into the gloom. He could make out a long slender figure, watching him in the distance. Recognition flooded him, of course _Mycroft._ He must be angry, coming out himself to reproach John rather than sending an unidentified henchman. John stood there, waiting for whatever sly remark or dangerously soft scolding he was to receive, but Mycroft didn't move. The more John looked, the more he doubted his eyes; the silhouette of the man didn't bear a familiar lean on an umbrella. The shape of the head was distorted somewhat, not the smooth, rounded outline that John would have expected. He was also a little too short. Fear gripped John quite suddenly, this person was not Mycroft. Not only that, but whoever it was had seen him, and had not moved. Not the police then either, not a security guard or elderly night watchman. John also got the unnerving feeling that eyes were needling him, he could almost make out a glint caused by the moonlight, but as it was behind the trees it cast him into an even darker shadow. This man, figure, whoever, would be able to see John clearly in the silvery glow that cascaded from the sky, as the trees broke where he stood. The sweat on Johns head was now no longer from heat, but pure terror, terror of the unknown, why hadn't this man moved? Or said anything? He just stood and presumably stared. Feigning confidence John attempted to shout, 'Yeah? What are you looking at? This is none of your business so bugger off!' He knew that swearing wasn't necessary, his face would be dirt covered, as was the rest of him, he would be red and glistening with beads of sweat, not only that but he was ankle deep in a grave, none of this screamed sane, so why wasn't this person afraid? John raised the snow shovel high above his head in an effort to elicit some response from the dark stranger, 'Want some of this do ya? You've been warned!' John licked his lips, and tasted the salt, his hands were sweaty, he tried to prepare himself for any attack, or movement or verbal abuse that could possibly come his way, but nothing could have prepared him for the deep, mellifluous and oh so cruelly familiar voice that came from the stranger. 'Intimidation never was your strong point, John. Put your jumper back on, it's freezing.' The voice of Sherlock Holmes hit John like a punch to the chest, all the air screamed out of his lungs and his throat constricted; he was insane; he knew it now. And yet… 'John?' the baritone voice sounded concerned and serious. Johns breathing became shallow and difficult, he realised he had fallen backwards and was leaning dependently on the tombstone of the ghost that was now haunting him. This could not be happening.

The figure stepped closer and closer, slowly, cautiously as though approaching a dangerous or panicked animal. The silver moonlight crept through the trees and finally a beam of light sliced through the darkness and hit the man square in the face, a face, sharper than the beam, that John Watson knew so well. John stared, horrified and disbelieving at the man who was a mere feet away from him and Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, stared back.

'No, No, NO this isn't real' John Gasped, spots of white were blotting out his eyesight and he was gasping in sharp breaths of bitterly cold air, gulping it down as it burned his throat, his eyes stung, tears refused to come out, they just built up and up. Sherlock moved closer, stretching out a gloved hand, as he drew nearer John could see he looked different, his hair was much shorter, the curls had been tamed somewhat, which is why he hadn't immediately recognised his outline. His coat, which had been long and black had been replaced by a navy blue military style one with silver buttons which glinted in the moonlight. John didn't know why he was noticing these things, but he knew that if he didn't focus on something he'd be sick or faint. Sherlock closed the small space between them and placed a hand on each of John's shoulders, the world swayed, span and then started to grow dark. He felt himself falling, but didn't have the sense to try and land properly, he just toppled forwards. Luckily for him, Sherlock had been ready to catch him. He took and supported his weight and lowered him gently to the damp ground. Clinging onto the tall man, John was on his knees panting, his face buried into a chest, he refused to believe what was happening. After a few moments Sherlock drew him back by the shoulders. He was squatting down propping both himself and John up, John wondered absent mindedly if his calf muscles were hurting. Then again, figments of a broken mind couldn't feel pain.

'John?' Sherlock's voice was breathy, it sounded emotional, not unlike those few moments before he had jumped. John squeezed his eyes shut so that a fresh burst of bright dots erupted in front of him; he put his hands over his ears and shook his head side to side. 'No, go away, go away.'

'John.' The voice was harsher this time, like it was annoyed at John's rather reasonable reaction. A familiar wave of anger seized John, his veins flooded with fire and he reached up slowly to the man's face. Sherlock looked started at first, but then he relaxed, John seemed to have stopped denying it, he just needed proof, to physically touch him, and as much as Sherlock usually loathed physical contact John's hands on either side of his face was not entirely uncomfortable.  
>A small shiver ran down the detective's spine as Johns hands slid from his cheek, brushed over his ears and down to his neck. It was an odd sensation, it felt like a warning. Unfortunately, Sherlock ignored it.<br>John's hands spread around the entire circumference of the detective's neck and he squeezed down. Sherlock's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to try and shout at john to stop but no voice would come out, John was making sure of that. He raised himself higher on his knees as he forced Sherlock onto his back, John looked down at his former best friend watching panic become fear and fear become heart break, Sherlock's heart was breaking because his best friend was trying to kill him. And that's when John let go. Of everything.

He pushed himself onto his feet and stood up, back straight and strolled away, leaving Sherlock coughing and gasping, eyes streaming, head thumping and chest hurting. He had almost managed to get to the gate which lead opened out onto the main road when he heard a whoosh of air and something heavy collided with him in the dark and shoved him against a tree; two clenched fists forced him still against his chest. He could see Sherlock's eyes, read and puffy but with a piercing look in them that made him gulp. 'You nearly killed me.' Sherlock hissed at him, the voice was monotone but the face screamed emotion, all emotions dancing and fighting upon one porcelain surface. John looked back at him, ready for any reaction. 'Now you know how I felt.'

Sherlock took a deep breath, a crease forming in between his eyebrows; John had never seen that expression before, which is why he didn't recognise it as sorrow. 'I cannot begin to tell you… I can't apologise enough-'  
>'No, you can't' John interrupted Sherlock with a voice so sharp and so filled with anger he barely recognised it as his own.<br>'But…' Sherlock was reluctant to continue but the hard glare told him if he didn't he might evoke another violent outburst from John. 'You never believed I was dead, apparently, so my reappearance shouldn't come as much of a shock for you.' It wasn't the words, it was the smirk, the oh so familiar raise of the eyebrow that said, _it's not my fault I'm cleverer than you. _John let out a roar of fury, like a wounded bear he stumbled forwards, blind with rage. Sherlock jogged backwards, keeping his eye on John, but also keeping his distance. 'You're right, that was a stupid, stupid thing to say. John I am very sorry, very sorry indeed and I never really left you, I was always here, always around to make sure you were… keeping yourself alive.' Again Sherlock kicked himself as he realised he had said completely the wrong thing, how did one reveal oneself to be alive again? There wasn't exactly a Wikipedia page or an instruction manual.

'You mean you knew? All this time you knew how my life was falling apart and you did NOTHING?'John's voice was cracking and he still pounded forward, but he was tired and his pace began to slow.

'I couldn't John, not until I knew you were safe, I didn't just jump for no reason, I didn't want to kill myself! Well I didn't kill myself; I just made it look like it by-

'SHUT UP!' John howled, Sherlock did, he nodded but carried on backing away, it would have looked comical really, both men travelling around the cemetery, one stumbling backwards, one stomping forwards, breathing heavily.  
>'You think you've seen me at my worst? Inside I've been aching, like there's some sort of saw spinning in my chest, carving away at my insides, I was scared to go to sleep because I knew I'd dream of you! It wasn't the dreams where you were dead, or dying that were the worst either Sherlock, oh no! It was the ones where you were alive and we were solving a case or watching telly and then I had to wake up and realise that it wasn't real! I forgot how to breathe Sherlock I only knew I wasn't when I had to gasp and then I had to keep sighing to stop the pain that was building up in my chest from making me sick! I didn't want to be alive but I didn't know what to do, I was a ghost, a half person, if I ate I vomited, if I didn't , I passed out! No one understood, I didn't understand, I denied it, denied that you were gone but everyone kept telling me over and over and I knew I was going mad but I didn't care because I just wanted to stop hurting, I wanted to wake up and have it as some sort of horrific nightmare. Everyday I felt hollow, my face just ached from trying to fake a smile, I didn't want to smile but people kept asking how I was and hugging me and I hated it. I was so angry. I'm still so angry Sherlock and it's your fault. I hate you, I want you dead now! At least I remember how to feel agony, I can't remember happiness anymore.'<p>

They had stopped pacing by now, John having got tired. He sank to the ground and put his head in hands and started to cry, great wracking sobs that felt like they had been storing up, the tears left streaks of pink, clean skin where it washed away the gave dirt. He guessed that Sherlock would walk away, hurt and frightened at Johns intensity. Instead, warmth enveloped him and his face was shoved into a neck and he inhaled an unfamiliar but still appreciated smell. He was rocked backwards and forwards for hours, eventually though they just sat, crumpled in a heap, a mass of fabric and pent up angst. Sherlock continued to do as he was told and remained silent while they held each other, brothers in arms. Tears slid down his hollowed, washed out cheeks as he enfolded John with his long limbs; they remained silent and conjoined until the sky grew pale and birds began to sing them out of their stupor. A new day dawned as they sat there, and when the sun rose it shone brighter than any sun either of them had seen in three years.


	4. Chapter 4

**I finally got comments :D :D :D it made my week better - it wasnt a good one :P Hope you like this chapter. Let me know what you think 3**

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><p>Chapter Four<p>

Fresh Scars.

John couldn't recall how they left the cemetery, or how they managed to get back to Baker Street still supporting each other, he supposed they walked, arm in arm like a drunken pair of losers, silent, determined. He just remembered the sound of Sherlock's breathing next to him, it was laboured, probably from taking most of Johns wait, but there was something else in it, like relief possibly, or maybe he was steeling himself for another outburst of emotion from john. Whatever it was, it continued steadily, just the sound, breathing in and out. John loved that sound more than any twittering larks; it was the sound of his life starting again. When finally they arrived at 221B Sherlock removed his arm from under Johns, and removed Johns arm from around his shoulders. He steadied him with the neck of his jumper, not particularly pleasant but Sherlock had other things on his mind, he hadn't set foot in the flat for a long time, the world's only consulting detective, seemly resurrected from the dead, was nervous. John of course didn't recognise the signs, he barely recognised where they were, his mind was still reeling, almost certain it was all a dream or a hallucination. Either way he longed-for it to continue so thought that he should immerse himself still further, so as not to destroy the suspension of reality his mind had probably created. They slowly ambled up the steps, Sherlock removing a key from his pocket as they did so; he slid it into the lock and turned, but the door did not move, the key felt still and jammed in the lock and he span round and glared questioningly at john who also held in his hand a key, brighter and newer. 'Mary had the locks changed, she said that she didn't trust you not to go giving keys out to complete strangers'. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he breathed venomously 'Mary… I'd forgotten about her.' John nodded and added with an attempt at a smile, 'Yes, I do that often.'  
>Something in the taller mans' eyes brightened, John assumed it was his long obsolete humour trying to return. John shuffled by Sherlock, not an easy task considering he wouldn't move aside, their bodies were close together again and John started to believe that a hallucination wouldn't be so solid or immovable. 'Only the real you would be so oblivious and weird' he said in a small mumble, but Sherlock heard him,<p>

'What do you mean the real me?' from Sherlock's lips the phrase could have easily been mocking or at the very least sceptical but he sounded genuinely intrigued.

'Well, you've been dead for, what? Three years? It's hard not to think that this is some sort of vivid fantasy.'

Without so much as a pause Sherlock retorted, 'Do you often fantasise about me John?' this time there was a definite smirk to his voice, but for some reason John couldn't get angry, all his anger seemed to have melted away for now and Sherlock was looking at him in an odd way, it took all his attention away from getting annoyed. It was an awkward moment that could have lasted a while had the door not been abruptly opened in front of them. Mrs Hudson stood with a bin bag full of rubbish, and looked startled, but not half as startled as her eyes travelled from John's familiar face to the face of the stranger accompanying him. What shocked her most, causing her to screech and fall backwards, her fall broken by the binbag, was that the tall, pale, dark haired man she had first disregarded bore a striking resemblance to Sherlock Holmes, the deceased. Flat on her back with her slipper covered feet stuck up in the air, her wavering voice called out to the ceiling as the two men bent down to help her up; 'I bloody knew it!'

Mrs Hudson sat at her rickety kitchen table, clutching with both spindly hands a cup of tea, courtesy of John. She sipped it frugally and offered furtive and twitchy glances at the man who stood directly in front of her, John stood behind, slightly to her right and rested a hand on her fragile shoulder marvelling at how undamaged she appeared, physically anyway.

'I don't really know how to explain this Mrs Hudson except to say I was never really dead, I just needed to disappear for a while, for yours and Johns and Lestrade's sake-' Sherlock glared at John as he scoffed at the mention of the D.I.

'I must admit Sherlock,' Mrs Hudson began in a shaky voice, 'Jumping off a building always did seem a bit, well, mundane for you. So boring.' She flashed him a watery grin and for the first time in a long time Sherlock Holmes smiled too, it turned into one of his laughs, rarely heard save my John and it was infectious. All three of them laughed and laughed, tears of sorrow and joy and relief rolling down their faces, Sherlock crossed his arms in front of him and John clutched at his sides, it was the happiest moment that any of them had had for three years, and they never wanted it to end. Eventually, though, they began to run out of breath, ribs and stomachs aching, their eyes red from the free flow of tears they all collectively sighed. Sherlock was the first one to speak, 'I am truly sorry, I hated it, as much as I prided myself on being abstract loyalties and sentiment, the time I spent away from Baker Street was utterly deplorable, sometimes I had to physically lock myself up so as not to come bursting back into everyone's lives.'

'But I still don't understand how you did it Sherlock, I mean you're a clever boy but really, it seems impossible!' Mrs Hudson looked at Sherlock, desperate to discover his secret. He began to explain it to her but John wasn't really listening, he caught odd words, _rubber ball, dead body, lowered heart rate, _but right at that moment John was soaking up the blissful realisation that his friend was actually back, not just back but that he had never been gone, just as John had thought. Sherlock had been right really, when he had said that John shouldn't be as shocked as everyone else, all these years John had known his best friend couldn't be dead, no matter how many people told him he was in denial. He had known it in his very core because they were so connected that Sherlock's death would have felt like the severing of his heartstring, and, as hurt and cold and devastated as John had been in those three lonely years, he had still reached out in the dark and he had always, without fail, felt the undeniable presence of his best friends consciousness reaching back to him. They were tied together and only death could separate them, and just as John had always known; it hadn't.

Mrs Hudson had taken the news surprisingly well considering her age; then again John should have learned by now not to judge her, beneath her feeble bosom beat the heart of a soldier. He wasn't sure if he could say the same for Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, the others affected by Sherlock's long absence. 'Mycroft's gonna kill you when he finds out, ironic really. If you're going to tell him, that is.' John gave Sherlock a look that said _not telling him is not an option_. Sherlock waved a hand dismissively and before John had chance to argue back he stated nonchalantly 'Oh, don't worry, Mycroft knows already.'

Johns smug look vanished faster than a light bulb blowing, 'What do you mean, how can he-'

'Don't be ridiculous, of course he knows, he'll have known as soon as I stepped onto British soil' Sherlock's lip curled with distaste.

'Wait so you don't know for definite that he knows, you're just assuming because it's Mycroft?' John wasn't giving up without a fight

'Of course I know for definite, It's not a difficult deduction.' Sherlock whipped out his phone, a newer model to that of its predecessor 'but also he sent me this text message' John squinted at the screen of the phone, which bore the words _You Bastard. MH._

'He does like to be dramatic' the detective sighed. John smirked; Sherlock was clearly unaware that he had just echoed his brother's own description of him what seemed like a lifetime ago. 'Oh Jesus' thought John aloud, 'How are we going to tell Lestrade, and Molly?' Sherlock gave him another disinterested look as he took as seat at Mrs Hudson's table; she had been mopping tears of laughter from her eyes and absorbing the familiar atmosphere of her boys' domestics. 'Yes, I am rather weary of Lestrade, I don't think DI's carry guns but I'm sure he could get his hands on one easy enough. Molly's always known of course but-'

'MOLLY KNOWS?' Sherlock looked shocked as John shouted at him, 'HOW? How has she always known Sherlock?' Sherlock looked somewhat sheepishly to the ground. 'I have already mentioned I had inside help on my disappearing act. I thought you would assume it was to Molly that I was referring.' John was not appeased, 'Oh, you thought I would assume did you? You never gave her the time of day and yet you'd put that pressure on her, make her keep your secret, I bet she loved feeling so important and trusted while my life fell apart!' Sherlock's return had healed Johns emotional wound but it was still raw and it just been poked. Unfortunately Sherlock saw right through John, it wasn't for Molly's sake that he was angry. 'John I'd quite like to get reacquainted with the living room; Mrs Hudson if you'll please excuse us' he gave her a curt nod and she smiled up at them both.

Sherlock waited until the door to their once shared flat was shut and they were both in the centre of the living room, John felt there were heated words coming but forgot completely that Mary could be in the flat, or that she existed at all. 'Don't act so hurt John; you know if I could have told anyone it would have been you.'

'Oh really, only it seems that you did one hell of a job keeping me in the dark for so long, you probably forgot I existed , you were perfectly happy with your new life, wherever the hell you were. You're probably only back here because you're bored and you thought I would provide you with some entertainment.-'

'John you're being absurd-'

'Oh yes, that's right, because I don't entertain you do I Sherlock? I'm boring too, boring old John, with his job and his morals and his feelings, only good for doing odd jobs and treating like crap-'

'You're behaving like an adolescent.'

'You know what Sherlock? I have the right to behave however I want, you left me! You abandoned me. I was so alone Sherlock, so lonely. Do you know what it feels like to be an outcast, to feel completely separate, completely alone in the middle of a crowded room full of people who claim to be your friend? Do you?'

'John as you are aware, no one would ever class themselves as my friend-'

'Don't pull that bullshit on me, you've managed to worm your way into plenty of peoples lives'-'

'-However I do know how it feels to be an outcast, to feel different-'

'Stop trying to play the victim here Sherlock!'

'You are… upsetting me, John'

'What, you? The robotic man? The cold, unfeeling Sherlock who doesn't give a damn about anyone? You didn't fake your own death to save me, you did it so you could get away but you wouldn't have to feel bad with my death on your conscience. What? Worried you wouldn't be able to delete me as easily as any other useless thing in your life?

'ENOUGH!' It was a rare occasion that Sherlock Holmes shouted, but when he did, it demanded attention. John felt physically unable to continue. 'Do not think, do not John, think that for one second I was able to forget you, or that I would ever want to.'

It wasn't just what he'd said, it was the dark look that appeared on the detectives face, it was intense and John had to look away as a hot blush crept up his neck and threatened to expose itself on his face. Sherlock strode across the room in two steps and all of a sudden was too close, it was uncomfortable and for the longest time John wouldn't be able to figure out why. With his face inches away Sherlock mumbled, almost whispered, he hands held behind his back, 'The last three years have been awful for me too John, please don't insult me by thinking I don't care about you. I do.' He cleared his throat before continuing, 'Very much so.' Sherlock didn't open up very much, rarely spoke of sentiment or feeling, John still couldn't look him in the eye, he was looking down, ashamed of himself for trying to hurt his friend. 'I'm sorry Sherlock…' The detective took a step back and John breathed out, not even realising until then that he had been holding his breathe. 'It's ok John, I understand you are angry, I just wanted it to be clear that- well, you know now.' He coughed nervously and strode into the kitchen, removing his navy blue coat and tossing it over his shoulder onto the arm chair as he did so. John realised he still hadn't moved and was still staring at the floor. He mentally shook himself and sat on the sofa. Just as the kettle had boiled (Sherlock had shockingly offered to make tea) the door down stairs was opened and shut. Heeled footsteps made their way up and John cringed inwardly. Mary. This was going to be interesting. But not boring, definitely not boring. John expected that now Sherlock was back in his life, it would never be dull or boring again, and somewhere inside him, his soul cheered.

Sherlock was just bringing John his cup of tea when Mary finally bustled in laden with shopping, the reason she had taken such a painfully long time to ascend the stairs and enter the flat. John had guess at this reason but had not taken it upon himself to offer help; he thought it best that she was as annoyed at him as possible, so she wouldn't have such a shock at Sherlock's imminent rudeness. Her face was blank as she first set eyes on the scene, it was a cosy little domestic, nothing new there, but the dark haired man with a curious face was cause for confusion. Sherlock stood silent, John could see his eyes sweeping her up and down, deducing her, analysing her clothes, hair, and makeup. John felt pity for her, she never was a worthy replacement, he just hoped that Sherlock wouldn't point it out too harshly. The silence stretched on and on, no one spoke; eventually Mary gently placed the shopping on the ground, just where she stood. She was looking back and forth between John and this strange man, then, quite without prompt her mouth formed a perfect circle shape and her eyebrows slowly rose. 'Oh. It's you.' She was directing it at Sherlock, but then her eyes snapped back to John 'It's him isn't it? I can tell by the way…' She didn't finish her sentence, John never knew what she was going to say, he speculated and he didn't like the conclusion her mind had come too. 'I'm guessing you'll be moving back in then. I'll need a couple hours to get my stuff.' She approached Sherlock, who had remained surprisingly silent; she scanned him as he had done her, thoroughly. 'I don't know what makes you so special, but apparently you are. Take care of him, don't hurt him again. Please.' Sherlock's face was soft, his lips parted but he said nothing, he just looked deep into her eyes and nodded slowly. Mary turned her face away, walked where John was still sat and squeezed his good shoulder gently; her body directed away from him, her arm slightly behind her, she only rested it there for a few seconds before retreating to their shared bedroom. John could hear her crying as she gathered up her belongings.

'That went better than I expected.' John tried to force a bright tone and looked at Sherlock. He was stood with his hand up to his face, cradling his forehead between his thumb and forefinger, the other spidery fingers supporting it. He looked more tired than John had ever seen; he looked like he had aged ten years, not three, in that moment. 'Aren't you going to stop her leaving?' Sherlock asked removing his hand from his face and turning to John.

'Erm, I hadn't thought about it really, I think she'll be secretly pleased to go. I've been a bit of a nightmare to be honest.'

'That's not the point John. I think it would do her some good if you tried to stop her leaving. At least she will feel almost wanted.' Sherlock was displaying alarming signs of recognising human emotion and it startled John so much he agreed.

He gently pushed open the door to the bedroom, poked his head round. Mary was stood with her back to him, folding up her various items of clothing and, John realised with a pang of guilt, one of John's jumpers. He didn't begrudge her it. 'Mary?' She stopped packing and straightened up but didn't turn around straight away, 'You don't have to leave, there's another room upstairs remember?' he heard her sigh and she finally span round to face him;

'And who would be taking that one? Me or Sherlock?' her face was expressionless

'What? Sherlock of course, me and you are together, getting married, remember?' John felt like a puppet, someone else making his mouth form the words.

'John you said you didn't want to-'

'Look I was upset, I didn't mean it-'

'Yes you did. And its ok I would rather you be honest than lying like you are now.'

'I just didn't want you to feel like I don't appreciate you, you're amazing. You'll be alright on your own.' John wasn't sure if he'd overstepped a line, it sounded a bit patronising.

'I've always been on my own with you John. But now I can move on. Goodbye John, I might be back for more things but for now I just need to leave.' She zipped up her bulky suitcase and heaved it off the bed before half carrying half dragging it through to the living room. John followed her silently, almost bumping into her as she stopped abruptly. Sherlock, who had been crouched precariously on the sofa leapt up and began to move forwards, 'Do you need some help with that?' he was being strangely polite and it John wondered what other new habits Sherlock had picked up in his three year absence. Mary shook her head but placed her suitcase on the ground before speaking, 'I know what you do, you know everything about me from one look.' Then, she stood up on her tiptoes and kissed Sherlock on the cheek before whispering something in his ear, John didn't catch it but then he realised that was the point. Whatever she had said it was met with a slow nod which she seemed satisfied with; despite Sherlock's inclination to pick up her case, she took it in her left hand and walked out of the room without another glance. John felt almost annoyed, he had been massively cut out and these two had been strangers, only brought together by him, as a common interest.

'What did she say to you?' enquired John after they had resumed their former position, he in the armchair and Sherlock on the sofa, his long limbs drawn close around him.

'Mm? Oh, nothing, can't remember, deleted it. Irrelevant' Sherlock reached for the remote and turned on the TV. John rolled his eyes at his flatmate for being so strange, but then suddenly had a strange thought that Sherlock might actually be lying, covering for Mary. It was an odd notion but John trusted his judgement and did not question him further. He doubted it was anything important, possibly more advice to treat him well, he put it out of his mind; whatever it was, it was over with now. Or at least, that's what John thought…

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><p><strong>ohhh cliffhanger... <strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**I have been totally feeling the love from you guys and it's really been brightening a crappy time so thanks for that! I don't know really when i'm going to end it but i think it might get a bit more than bro-mance action i think. Nothing to graphic but i don't want it to come as a shock in later chapters :P**

**Please Enjoy and any feedback, critical or otherwise is appreciated :D**

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><p>Chapter 5<p>

Back to the Past.

It had been almost a month since Sherlock's return and Mary's abrupt and surprisingly uncomplicated departure and things were starting to get back to 'normal' at 221 B Baker street. John still had the occasional nightmare, that Sherlock had never returned, or that he was taken again, but these worries were vanquished by a sneaky trip to the upstairs bedroom. He would push the door open, which was always left ajar, not shut, and peer into the gloom, just to establish that there was a slender human shaped lump under the duvet. He would stand awhile, just long enough for ears to pick up on the decreased breathing rate of the detective, caused by sleep; when he had heard that he would usually leave. On occasion though, Johns dreams had been extremely vivid and had even lead him to believe that it was Moriarty and not Sherlock who had returned and was residing in the upstairs room. In these instances John had to hold his breath and tiptoe closer to the bed, and lean over the sleeping form to get a view of the face, it was always Sherlock's' face of course, it didn't take more than a few seconds to recognise the high cheekbones and the full, almost effeminate lips but rather than leaving immediately John would gaze awhile, just to make absolutely sure…

John had apparently forgotten that he was invading the personal space of the world's only consulting detective, whose newest notable achievement was to apparently cheat death. Although he didn't mention it, Sherlock was fully aware that someone and he had a pretty certain idea who, was venturing into his room in the middle of the night. The door was never at the exact angle of incidence the frame as it had been when he had gone to bed, the carpet showed signs of footsteps, heavier than his, and once he had found a greying blonde hair towards the end of his bed. It unnerved him that John would do something as irrational as checking on him whilst he was asleep, in some ways it was understandable, the whole situation wasn't exactly the norm, but after a month the detective thought that the continuance these night time events was somewhat unnecessary. John of course was taking a great risk of being caught, Sherlock was a unpredictable sleeper at best, but being back in Baker Street seemed to have given him somewhat of a need for routine, he hadn't slept at all well in his three year absence, and he guessed that John hadn't either, so both of them often retired to bed before midnight and didn't usually rise till about eight thirty, well, not including Johns wanderings. Sherlock hadn't ruled out sleepwalking, but it seemed unlikely seeing as nothing else in the flat was ever disturbed and he was so quiet that Sherlock had only ever awoken twice, and both times John had retreated before a conflict could occur. He wondered if John would mention his new hobby if Sherlock started to lock his door, however then John would know he knew, causing awkwardness for both of them. Human social convention was ever so complicated, at what point had he, Sherlock Holmes, become so bound to them? He of course knew it was Johns fault; he wanted John to know that he cared and he could only do that by acting caring. Annoying. Sherlock was considering on confront John on his recently developed habit when a thought popped into his head. 'We should go to Scotland Yard, ask if there are any cases.' He looked towards John, who was reading the paper, 'Really? After how Lestrade reacted to your resurrection?' John grimaced at the thought.

It was never going to go well of course, but even John couldn't predict the extent of the Detective Inspectors shock. Sherlock had walked into the station, past the shocked or confused underlings of Scotland Yard and waltzed straight into Greg's office, his arms wide open and declared 'Look, it's a miracle! I'm Alive!' Lestrade had let out a roar and promptly fell backwards off his chair, before scrambling up and letting out a stream of curse words some of which, John felt sure Sherlock wouldn't have heard before. He just stood there, a tall, lanky slice of calm. This soon changed to dodging and weaving as Lestrade decided to throw anything and everything he could get his hands on at Sherlock's head, objects included a stapler, a mug bearing the Met police logo and even the computer keyboard and mouse. Finally, when he was exhausted, he had just slid down onto his desk and told them to 'get out and never show you're faces around here ever again. EVER!' Looking back it amused John to think how Sherlock could have forgotten this very obvious request.

'Sherlock, have you completely forgotten what happened?'

'No, of course not John but it's been nearly a month and he's probably cooled down by now. I'll give him a call and ask if he has anything for me.' And with that Sherlock whipped out his phone and speed dialled the number. After a few rings someone picked up and just as Sherlock's face had split into a grin, a series of violent and largely incoherent words came screaming out of the phone before it went dead. John had to refrain from laughter and instead just coughed and said 'Maybe try him again in another month.' With that Sherlock leapt up from the sofa and stepped up and over the Ikea coffee table, which John pondered, was possibly not as stable as the old solid oak one that had been there before. Sherlock also noticed this and whipped round to glare at it 'What's this?' John sighed and replied 'It's a new coffee table Sherlock.' Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued 'Yes I have eyes I mean why is it here? Why did you need a new one? Or did Mary just decide to change it because she likes interfering.' Sherlock stopped for a moment and looked troubled, it occurred to John that he might be remembering whatever it was she had said to him but when John cleared his throat, the expression, along with the thought, disappeared. 'I mean why John? It's spindly and hollow sounding!'

'Yes that's because it's from Ikea…'

'Where's Ikea, is that a town?'

John laughed incredulously 'No it's a big, like, home shop, furniture, light fittings, whole kitchens if you want them and it's all displayed in like, modal rooms, so, say, there's five different lounge scenes, so you can imagine stuff better, or see what it would look like if you bought all the stuff.'

'But what happens when people buy the stuff? Do they change the scene, or just the furniture that has been taken?'

'No, Sherlock, that's just a display, everything has a name, like, that table I think was called Syorik, and you write it down with a little pencil that you can find in pots around the store and you go to the big warehouse and get one, take it home and build it.'

'Build it? Why isn't it already built? That's the point of the tertiary sector industry, to add value to raw materials by turning them into ready to use items. Why don't they just ask you to buy a tree and chop it down and whittle it?'

'Sherlock its flat pack furniture, that's the point, you assemble it yourself.'

'Yes but why?'

'Because- well, I don't know. But it comes flat so you can fit it in the car'

'Ikea… who came up with this ridiculous idea?'

'Ah that would be the Swedish. The meatballs are nice though, you can get them in the café'

'There's a café? In a warehouse? John, this is madness.'

'Madness? No it's just Ikea; people spend hours in there kitting out their entire house, so they need sustenance.'

'It sounds like a horribly dull place.'

John sighed, 'It is. Although I have always wanted to hide in one of the wardrobes, jump out and shout 'I've just been to Narnia!'' John grinned at the image but Sherlock was frowning…

'Where's Narnia, John?'

After explaining the entire fictional realm created by the mind of C.S Lewis, Sherlock finally allowed John some quiet; he made a cup of tea and sat down with his laptop. For the first time in three years he went onto his blog and started to write;

_Dear followers, some of you have stopped visiting my blog and I can understand why, I haven't added anything since the tragic death of Sherlock Holmes. I would like to announce that-_

John stopped and glanced at Sherlock who was now lying on his back on the sofa, he legs resting on the arm at an acute angle to his torso, 'Sherlock, are we not going to tell the general public you've come back?' John kicked himself; he'd never been gone in the first place. Sherlock let out a long drawn out 'No' before continuing in a laboured drawl, it wasn't meant to offend, he was merely considering what he was saying as he said it, 'I think it best for me to remain out of the public and media eye now. Just in case some people who would seek to do me harm are still lurking about.' In a more brisk tone he added 'Besides, I think faking your own death comes under one of those 'against the law things… thinking about it, Lestrade could have had me arrested. On a good note, he hasn't, which means there is still hope for our friendship' Sherlock flashed a smile before closing his eyes once more. John continued with his blog, a slightly amended version to the one in his head

_I would like to announce that I have found a new flatmate, just as brilliant and intelligent as Sherlock was. He has been living with me for approximately a month now and we have become good friends. He has even started to take an interest in some cases that had gone previously unsolved by Sherlock and myself. Will let you know how we get on. If there's anybody out there who still reads this, I'm not broken anymore. I got my life back. _

John realised the last bit was overly sentimental for a public blog, so again amended it

_If there's anybody out there who still reads this, thanks for sticking with it,_

_John_

It'll have to do, thought John. He looked over to the man on the sofa, seemingly made up of all limbs, his arms stretched out behind him, his hands relaxed and dangling off the edge of bony wrists. He'd never really paid much attention to Sherlock's features before, he was just another man, who was taller, thinner and slightly younger than John, that's where his observations began and ended, but he began to wonder what his mind would conjure if he looked at Sherlock the way that Sherlock looked at everyone else; closely, intimately, picking up on every detail. He realised he'd been staring at Sherlock's hands for a long time now and quickly glanced at his face, luckily his eyes were still shut, brow slightly furrowed as if in thought or reverie. So, Sherlock's hands then, they were pale, spidery so he didn't get much sunlight, but John knew that anyway, his nails were short, very short and not quite smooth. Did he bite his nails? That's what John's observations were telling him; if so, had he always done? There were scars on his hands, dainty marks of even paler, softer skin that was puckered up and stood out from the rest; John hadn't noticed them before, probably from acid or chemical spillages, burn marks. John's eyes travelled up Sherlock's arms, they too were relatively thin, with some toning, so active lifestyle enough to stay in shape but doesn't work out routinely. Again John knew that already, he wasn't much good at this. His eyes searched for anything more interesting, anything he didn't already know or hadn't already seen. Sherlock seemed fairly blank, unreadable, but then again in his pyjamas and blue silk dressing down he didn't exactly seem to represent his usual self anyway, all smart and prim. John let his gaze continue to roam, quite absentmindedly in fact until he saw a snippet of flesh that hadn't been there before. Sherlock had stretched himself out longer, possibly asleep by now, and had exposed a small slice of alabaster skin where his t shirt had rode up a little on his stomach. It was just a stomach but Johns eyes were drawn to it, it was the colour of the moon, and perfectly flat. Not potbellied like John had become or drawn to give an emaciated look, just flat. With a little outie belly button. There was something endearing about it, John had always though outie belly buttons, if they weren't too far out, were the best ones to have. Maybe it was because he himself had an innie, a lack of anything except a dark hole on his stomach. Such a little observation had caused John to start smiling and he could not explain why. He also couldn't explain why his brain didn't stop his mouth from declaring 'that's cute.'

The room was silent for few seconds, although to John they felt like several sunlit days, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes like it was an effort, and as the eyes opened the eyebrow went up. He craned his neck so that he stayed lying down but he could see John, who knew he had gone bright red. His mouth opened and closed like a fish but no words came out; slowly, Sherlock sat up, straightened up and then stood up. Then crossed the small space between them and crouched down in front of John, his head tilted to the side. Sherlock's eyes flickered over Johns face and still, John was silent, he just watched Sherlock moisten his bottom lip with his tongue before saying 'Right.' Clearly had come to some conclusion, or deduction and John feared what it might be. Before he had chance to ask, Sherlock had stood upright again and swept out of the room. John felt terrible, he wasn't sure what exactly had happened but it had made the room so tense. Their relationship had been a point of speculation for everyone else but it had been straight forward to them, they were close friends, nothing more, there had been jokes passed between them but there had never been anything to really suggest they were attracted to each other in any way. Or at least there hadn't been until John had opened his mouth; it wasn't even a sexualised observation, he didn't go for men, he never had, not even experimented. John decided to take action; his palms were sweating but he ignored it, he headed upstairs to Sherlock's room, knocked once on the door and entered. Then all of a sudden a belly button was the least of John's worries. Snatching up clothes and trying to hide his modesty whilst mumbling apologetically, was an absolutely naked Sherlock Holmes. Of course, it all happened so quickly that John hadn't really seen anything, just flashes of white flesh, bare buttock, stripped torso, but even so, as he whirled around and threw himself out of the room his heart was racing with embarrassment, or something close to anyway. Feeling that the ordeal shouldn't be a total loss, John called through the door 'I just wanted to say sorry for the awkward moment, I forgot I wasn't living with a woman. I've always liked outie belly buttons and just forgot myself for a second, sorry Sherlock.' The door clicked and Sherlock appeared in the doorway, dressed, but dishevelled 'An outie?' John realised he hadn't mentioned what he was looking at and felt again foolish.

'Your belly button, it pokes out, so it's an outie. I think they look nicest, I have an innie. Look.' And out of sheer nerves he pulled up his own jumper to display his own stomach, tensing as much as possible whilst doing so, yet not knowing exactly why. Sherlock didn't look down, he just kept looking at Johns face until, feeling ridiculous once more, he let his jumper slide back down.

'John I don't really know what to say other than we have had a really odd morning and should probably never speak of it again. Is that agreeable to you?'

John was startled at his flatmates abruptness; 'Yea, course, it was just a slip of the tongue anyway, I didn't mean anything by it.' John tried to smile but it was strained, Sherlock merely nodded and retreated to his room. The lock clicked on and the noise was unfamiliar to John, as much as Sherlock often liked solitude, he had never locked his door before, not even at night. John doubted he would be able to secretly visit in the middle of the night for the near future, it was probably a good thing though, because the time which passed as he stood in the door way, or looking down at his sleeping friend, was increasing with each night that passed; it had been forty minutes the previous night, and he hadn't even had a nightmare. John just supposed it had become a habit, one which he must now break.

It was around early afternoon that Sherlock finally came back down stairs. John heard him descend the stairs and continue down to the front door; he then returned with the post in his hands, three or four colourful envelopes were among the final demands. 'It's your birthday?' Sherlock looked puzzled, John suddenly realised that he was quite right. 'Yes. Well, no, it's tomorrow. I totally forgot.' His aging hadn't been something that had been on his mind in the passing months, each day had seemed more like a curse. 'I should get you a present.' It wasn't a question this time.

'No you don't have to, honestly.'

'Don't be ridiculous John, social niceties need to be observed, you are my friend and therefore I must get you a present to celebrate your birthday.' John was silently touched at being called Sherlock's friend, even though he highly deserved the title.

'Ok, well don't spend too much, if you must get something for me, just something small.'

'I can do small' Sherlock grinned, grabbed his coat and new scarf and disappeared out of the door in a flourish. He had only been gone a seconds when he came back into the living room. 'John, I'm getting you a present because we need to get back to normal. It's a normal thing to get someone a gift for their birthday, so we should do it, to be normal.' With that he again disappeared out of the door and onto the busy streets of London town. Leaving John to breathe a sigh 'We've never been normal…'

John had found it difficult to sleep the whole night without once visiting Sherlock's room, instead he lay awake while the silvery light of morning spreading over the inky blackness of night like a bright oil on a dark water. Multiple times John had gotten out of bed, prepared to go and seek out Sherlock or start the new day, but every time he collapsed back onto the bed and swung his legs back under the covers to keep warm. His mind was so full, it felt like old thoughts and memories were beginning to seep out of ears to make room for the new thoughts that were being created. _Why had Sherlock stressed the word Normal so much? Did he no longer see John as normal? Had John over stepped some sort of boundary into the weird? Well of course, checking that his flatmate was still alive in his bed was somewhat odd but Sherlock didn't know about that. What if he did? That would make the whole belly button fiasco even worse. Maybe that's why he was being so distant. Oh God, what must he think? Probably that he had some school boy crush on him. Maybe it would be best to move out? Probably, but he'd waited too long to get Sherlock back to leave and not see him again. _John hadn't noticed the sound of a violin being played in the living room. He wasn't sure what had made him realise, but the tune was very recognisably 'Happy Birthday'. John got out of bed and made his way downstairs in his pyjamas, like a child on Christmas morning, and he got a similar shock seeing the small pile of presents that had appeared on the Ikea table. Sherlock was dressed in an unfamiliar blue stripped shirt, with his jacket and trouser combination. The shirt was pleasant, not too outlandish but it suited his pale complexion, _what? Am I woman now? Bloody complexion _thought John as Sherlock set his Violin down and made his way to the kitchen, calling over his shoulder 'Happy Birthday John, what do you want for breakfast? I can do a bacon sandwich if you want?' John was sure he was still dreaming

'You're going to cook me some bacon?'

'Yes, it's not hard. Do you like it crispy?'

'Yea- Sherlock where are all these presents from?' he looked down at the various wrapped packages, differing in size and shape.

'Well, one of them is from me, that's the one in the green wrapping paper without a bow, then there's one from Mrs Hudson, that's the one in the little red bag, one from your sister, that's blue with the silver bow. Mycroft's is the bottom one, the flat one, also in blue wrapping paper. Molly's is the bottle shaped one with the ribbon around it; I suppose we can guess what that is. Also there's a card from Mary on there somewhere- I know, I was surprised too' he added at Johns look of incredulity.

'But how come they're all here? Normally I just get them when I see people'

'Yes that's what I thought, but I wanted it to be a proper birthday so I went round collecting them and telling everyone to meet us in the pub about sevenish tonight. This way you wouldn't have to carry everyone's presents back here.' Sherlock was too busy frying the bacon to see Johns face, he was touched by how thoughtful Sherlock had been, it made his chest feel tight but warm.

Sherlock brought over two plates of bacon sandwiches, two for each of them and went back to fetch the cups of tea. John was fiddling with the small green wrapped box that he had been informed was from Sherlock, turning it over in his hand, waiting for him to return. 'I'm going to open yours first, if that's ok?' Sherlock agreed with a mouthful of bacon and bread. It was so neatly wrapped, so precise, like an experiment, John smiled. He heard a tut of impatience, he was clearly being overly sentimental for Sherlock's liking. Tearing away the paper he revealed a small brown box, it had hinges on it so John opened it up; inside on a small faux leather cushion was a watch. It had a gold black face with golden numbers on it, in roman numerals, the circle around it was also gold, but it was thin so it didn't look too garish. He strap was made of black leather and was quite thick and masculine. It wasn't an ordinary looking watch and John loved it. Without knowing what to say he smiled a small smile at his flat made who indicated with a nod of his head to the box. John took it from off the little cream cushion and undid the strap, doing so he saw small scratches on the back. Looking closer he realised they weren't scratches, it was an engraving. In small intricate lettering it read

_John,_

_I wish I could give you back the time that we lost_

_But this will have to suffice_

_Sherlock. _

It was so perfect, John was lost for words.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey sorry its been a while, i've had stuff to deal with, i wrote this instead of doing Uni coursework to tide everyone over until i can get into the meatier/angstier bits, after ivedone my essays (plural D: ) ENjoy, and thanks for reading!**

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><p>Chapter 6. Stalkers and Secrets.<p>

When John had finally stopped feeling like he was going to burst into tears like a sentimental teenage girl on prom night, he proceeded to open the other birthday presents. As expected from the shape, Molly had bought him a bottle of wine, red, which he never drunk but thought he could give it to someone else for a present, which would save him money. Mrs Hudson had given him a beautiful set of Stirling cufflinks, for which he decided warranted a thank you bunch of flowers, or at least a hug. Mycroft had bought John an interesting book on modern day techniques of secret intelligence agencies and all things sleuth, this had made him smile and look forward to the days, hopefully coming soon, where he and Sherlock would be chasing criminals down London's busy streets, and stuck at Bart's analysing dust samples. Harry had bought him a pair of hideous pyjamas that he suspected she never intended him to wear, and the DVD of the newest superhero movie, which after missing it at the cinema made him quite eager to watch it; even it would mean listening to Sherlock moan about it. None of the other presents quite matched up to his new watch though, which had been immediately displayed on his left wrist. He kept looking at it, not to check the time, which didn't really alter much every few seconds, but just to take in the surreal feeling that Sherlock Holmes had bought him such a wonderful gift; it was just unbelievable.

What was believable however, was Sherlock handing John his plate and mug from breakfast and declaring 'I cooked breakfast and bought you a present, seems only fair that you wash up!'

John agreed to, and took his watch off and placed it back in its box. 'It's waterproof up to thirty metres John' Said Sherlock looking offended.

'I know, it's a great watch, I just- I dunno, don't want to dunk it into soapy water that's all.' Sherlock looked at him like he thought him mad but then merely shrugged and got up to search for the TV remote.

'I thought we could watch the film my sister got me?' John asked hopefully as he turned his back on Sherlock and bent over the sink. He heard a derisive snort and rolled his eyes. 'Fine, what shall we do then? It's my birthday; I should get some say in it.'

'Well John, we have a new case.' John span around and Sherlock was stood beaming at him hopefully. 'Happy Birthday John, we have a stalker to deal with!' it was his honest pleasure at this that made John laugh and continue to wash the pots, shaking his head at his eccentric and quite frankly mental flatmate.

'Wait, I thought we were going to the pub tonight?' John had actually quite fancied drink.

'We are, we can sort this case in a matter of hours, now we're together again the criminals of London should be very afraid, I know you're a bit rusty but It seems a simple enough case.' Sherlock was talking in that rapid, excited voice that John had missed so much, it was almost too much to handle.

'Fine. We'll take the case-' Sherlock started jumping around the living room, '-but you're buying lunch. And you're getting me a pint in the pub.' Sherlock waved a hand dismissively which John took to mean a yes.

Dressed and fed they turned up at a flat in Hackney, it was fairly run down but seemed nice enough, a woman answered the door, John already knew she was the victim, Claire Mowbray aged 28. They were invited in and so Sherlock and John made their way into the small living space and sat side by side on the somewhat uncomfortable sofa bed.

'So,' began Sherlock, removing his scarf, 'When did the stalking, as you call it, begin?'

The woman took a long deep breath and began, 'Well, I started working for this firm, I'm a receptionist, so I'm the face of the company.'

_What a face._ John thought. She was very beautiful, it was obvious why she should be chosen to meet and greet people.

'So what you're saying is that you see hundreds of people every week, are very nice to them but never take in their name or faces or personality?' Sherlock had clearly not noted her attractiveness, something that oddly pleased John.

'Yes. So anyway, I'd been working there about three months when I got a bunch of flowers delivered to me, on the front desk, I got into trouble for it actually, then, every few weeks I got another bunch, well you can imagine, my boss was so angry. I explained to him I had no idea who was doing it so he suggested I must have a secret admirer, that's what first made me wonder. Then they stopped for a couple of months but then started up again, but this time it was other things, teddy bears, potted plants, I got one of those kissogram things one week, came in and started singing at me, I had to get security to escort him of the premises. Then a couple of days later an entire choir showed up, filled the entire lobby, that was the last straw, my boss called me in and dismissed me. I've lost my job just because someone hasn't got the guts to tell me they fancy me.' She put her head in her hands and John reached out and patted her knee, Sherlock glared at him for a second.

'So have you been contacted since you left work?' Sherlock nodded at John to start taking notes,

'No, well I don't know, no one from work had spoken to me, but he could still be sending stuff there'

'He?'

'Well, yes, it's probably a man, isn't it?' She looked puzzled

'Not necessarily. ' Sherlock steepled his fingers together before continuing. 'You said the gifts stopped and then started again, how long had you been receiving them the first time?'

'I'd been there four months and got five bunches of flowers, nearly one a month,'

'Yes, one a month plus an extra one, probably sent the day after you had met.'

'Do you think so?'

'Obvious. How long was the gap? When it stopped how long was it before it started again? With the more extravagant gifts?'

'Oh. Erm. So it was four months, then it stopped for about, two months, then it started again, and carried on for another three months, I got something nearly every day. It was a nightmare.'

Sherlock frowned, John had noted down everything but he could see by Sherlock's face that he would figure it out before John had even time to go through his notes and make any kind of connection. Sherlock gave him a sideways glance and a curt nod, his way of asking John to carry on the line of enquiry.

'Ok. Erm.' John wasn't as adept at precise interviewing as Sherlock was, 'So, is there anyone you can think of that might have done it? Someone who seemed to want to spend as much time talking to you as possible, or maybe someone you've seen hanging around a few times?'

'I told you, there's so many, and none of them stick out.'

'Right, erm, ok. Is there anyway of figuring out who the gifts are from? Notes? Receipts?'

'No the only thing that would have helped was the company the hired singers were from and that was a fake name. Joe Bloggs, paid in cash and wore a hat pulled low over his face.'

'Yea, not very helpful.' John was stuck and Sherlock knew it, so he stepped in,

'How well did you get on with your colleagues Claire?' The woman looked confused, 'Did you make any friends? Enemies? Any work romances?' She looked at the ground for a few seconds before answering

'No, no enemies. Or work romances.'

'Right, plenty of friends then?'

'Yes. I guess so'

'Out of those friends, how many of them were male?'

Why? Do you think it's someone who actually works there?'

'How many Claire?'

'It's a big company but I'd say I know seven of the guys' names and then the rest faces.'

' Ok and out of the seven men whose names you know is there a man whose name you remembered because he wasn't like the others?'

'What? No. Wait. How did you know?'

Sherlock smiled his cat like smile, 'Who was it and why did you remember his name Claire?'

'Peter. He was sweet, nervous, not like the others, they were all quite, well you know, city boys. Oh my god it was Peter wasn't it? Why couldn't he just come and ask me out?' She seemed annoyed but it quickly faded, 'Poor Peter, they were always having a go, saying he was weird, Pete the Perv they called him, I always defended him but looks like they were right.'

'No.' Sherlock stood up; Claire looked startled and looked up at him

'No? What do you mean?'

' This Peter fancied you, sent you flowers but after four months and five bunches of flowers he stopped, he wasn't a pervert or a stalker, which is why he gave up when you couldn't figure out it was him sending you the flowers.'

'Wait a minute.' John stood up as well, 'What do you mean he stopped because she couldn't figure it out? What made him start up again and get the sack? Revenge?' Sherlock smiled at him and gave him the _Come on John you're nearly there _look. It was a shame, John was never really nearly there, Sherlock just couldn't see how he couldn't be.

'Sherlock I'm sorry I don't see why he-'

'Exactly!' Sherlock grasped Johns shoulders and looked hopeful

'It doesn't make sense for him to do it-'

'Yes…'

'So, the second time round, it wasn't him?'

'YES JOHN! YOU'VE GOT IT. I told you it would be an easy one!'

'Excuse me?' Claire stood up and looked at one man then the other, 'I don't understand what's going on.'

'Who has replaced you as receptionist, better yet, who didn't like you, I know you said you didn't have enemies but you're an attractive young woman with career prospects, somebody, probably another woman, didn't like you. Jealousy. Stupid.'

'Well, I mean, Jeanette once said that it should have been her job, but she never seemed annoyed, just pointing it out.'

'And is this Jeanette older and less attractive than you?'

'Well, erm, she's older and, I don't know, she's a bit, well bigger than me I guess'

John admired her tact, even towards a woman who had possibly got her fired, Sherlock however had no such scruples 'So you, young, pretty and nice to everyone gets the job that some old, fat and probably bitter woman wanted, she saw you get into trouble for the flowers so after they stopped she upped the anti and carried it on herself. Come along you too, we have an appointment!'

And with that he grabbed his coat and scarf and dashed out of the room, leaving John to explain to Claire that they were going to her former place of work to confront Jeanette and inform the boss.

As it transpired, the great Sherlock Holmes, rusty from years of early retirement, was wrong. Although not entirely through fault of his own,

'Why didn't she just tell me she was having an affair with her boss?' Sherlock had raved thus since they had stormed out of the accountancy firms building. John had tried to calm him down ever since

'Because some people don't like telling people their secrets.'

'Then why hire a private detective? I mean it wasn't hard to guess when you have all the facts like she did, they started having an affair, she got cold feet, he wanted an excuse to sack her, started sending gifts, they got back together so he stopped, then she wanted out again so he gave himself a reason to fire her by overloading the lobby with teddy bears and choral groups and saying that the attentions of her secret admirer were disrupting business! How could she not see that it was his doing?'

'Maybe she was in denial Sherlock?'

'She was wasting my time.' He threw himself down on the sofa and curled up into a foetal position.

'Well, cheer up, pub tonight' John attempted to lighten the mood whilst also reminding Sherlock of previous engagements.

'Not going.'

'Why not? It's my birthday.'

'Don't want to, your birthday, your friends, you go. I'll stay here.'

'But- but I want you to come, you're my best friend.'

The silence lingered for a few moments longer than John would have liked, before he heard a great intake of breath and then a sigh

'Fine, but only because it's your birthday. What's for tea anyway?'

John grinned triumphantly and went to prepare his own birthday meal of chicken Korma and garlic naan bread.


	7. Chapter 7

**hey guys, i've decided i'm going to try and make it a ten chapter story, whether that will pan out i don't know. Hope you stick with it and enjoy it, it's been so theraputic writing it. Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews and all the favourites and follows, i hope this chapter doesn't dissapoint 3**

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><p><span>Chapter Seven <span>

Shadows of the Past 

John had just finished scraping the remaining rice into the bin when Sherlock strode into the room, wearing jeans. Actual jeans. With the jeans he wore a dark red fitted shirt and a black fitted jacket buttoned, he had also clearly made an effort to control his mop of dark hair, he looked, and John was alarmed to realise this, extremely attractive.

'John?' Sherlock's serious tone snapped him out of his reverie, he was embarrassed to discover his mouth was hanging slightly open, he caught before attempting to put reason to it

'Im just shocked you've made such an effort, for me- for my birthday, I mean.' It hadn't really eased the tension but both of them pretended it had.

'Are you getting ready then? Please John; don't wear one of your jumpers.'

He was insulted at the slight on his jumpers but didn't argue, emerging back into the living area after approximately twenty minutes of deciding what to wear, John appeared in a Polo t shirt, which, although a little tight, was quite flattering on the remains of arm muscles gained from his army training. Sherlock nodded in approval before handing passing his jacket from the back of the sofa, winking and heading out of the door.

They walked along the streetlamp lit streets of Baker Street towards The Old House Cat pub, Sherlock suddenly looked enlightened before revealing, 'It's supposed to be a surprise party, so act surprised.'

John chuckled, 'Sherlock, you've organised something that isn't for your own benefit, or isn't an experiment, just because it's my birthday, I am surprised.'

Sherlock grinned the half grin that John had become accustomed to before continuing

'Well that's good, but , maybe be more visually surprised as well as inwardly surprised, for everyone elses benefit. You smell different, did you know?

This question caught John off guard,

'Er, yea I got a new aftershave; well actually it was a present from-

'Mary? I don't like it. Well, it's alright I suppose, but I prefer your old smell. Your old aftershave I mean.'

There was something in those words, 'your old smell'. They lingered in the air like the memory of familiar scents. Everything was different since they had been reunited, expressions that would have once gone unnoticed could now mean the end of life as it was known, the look on Sherlock's face as he had said Marys name, angry, undeniable, like the once innocent accidental touches that were now redefined phrases in a whole new language, neither of them quite fluent in it yet, both confused as to what it really was.

The silence lasted until they reached the pub, and as soon as they entered they were greeted by cries of Johns nearest and dearest, 'Surprise!' John attempted to look shocked but a few of the guests didn't look entirely convinced.

Lestrade stood in the corner, looking resentfully at Sherlock and somewhat fearfully at John, which was unsurprising given his reaction every time he had laid eyes on the detective inspector. John was reunited with a few men from Afghanistan, tanned and tired looking, all three of them bought him a drink a piece and they talked about old times, old terrors . John tried to mingle through the croud, gently sneaking his sisters drink away when she'd had too many, laughed sycophantically at Mike Stumfords jokes, but no matter where he was, he kept Sherlock in his peripheral. Sherlock himself had wandered from person to person, slower, more precise, he had spend a lot of time drinking at a table with Molly, casting John glances every now and then, wanting him to join the conversation. It was the first time in a long time John felt at peace, every one he had ever wanted or needed seemed to be in this room, deep down though John knew that if Sherlock hadn't been there, he couldn't have felt this complete, A thought that made his stomach squirm, although that could have been the six pints and two whiskeys he had. Finally, after making sure he had spoken to everyone, he sought out Sherlock and Molly who were still tucked in the corner, and made his way over to them. He collapsed in the alcove sofa next to his best friend and turned to Molly and, pointing drunkenly at her said

'You were a very naughty lady. You knew he was alive, all that time and never told me! That's not nice Molly, not nice at all!' He smiled at her and hiccupped but he saw that his words had effected her, she became uncomfortable, and a sharper mind would have identified the tears welling up in her eyes.

'yes well, I promised Sherlock I wouldn't- Well anyway, its late I should go, Happy Birthday John. See you around Sherlock.' She stood up to go and to Johns annoyance Sherlock stood up to as to follow her,

'Molly, ignore John he doesn't know what he's saying' Sherlock was apologising for John, and John did not like this at all.

'No Sherlock shuttup, Molly, why didn't you tell me? You knew how I was going through hell and you just watched! I just don't get it Molly I thought you were my friend, friends don't do that to each other Molly.'

'John Shut up now.' Sherlock had turned to directly face John now, a flash of warning in his eyes, a hand upon his shoulder, John opened his mouth to talk again, but Sherlock's face changed, into a pleading expression, it was so rare that it stunned John for a second, long enough for Molly to dash out of the heavy wooden doors. 'John I think we should go home, you've had enough.' Sherlock's voice was soft and caring, he sat back down, close to him and whispered in his ear ' It's ok John, let's go home, please.' It sent shivers down Johns neck, he had actually felt Sherlock's breath on his ear, it was warm and desperate and it made his head spin. 'Sherlock I can't yet, can I have some water first and then we'll go.' He wanted Sherlock to argue, to lean in again and whisper requests to him, but instead Sherlock nodded, slipped by John and headed to the bar, leaving him feeling foolish, his heart beating like he had been running.

He watched Sherlock approach the bar and order, he noticed the slender blonde man staring at him, seated on one of tall stools, he was holding a nearly empty glass of wine. John watched as he knocked back the remenants of the drink and headed towards the bar, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock, like a predator stalking its prey, cold and hungry. A part of John cried out to him to go and join his friend at the bar, that Sherlock needed protecting from this mysterious and determined looking man, but the rest of him, lethargic from the alcohol just made him sit and observe as the stranger placed himself next to Sherlock and pretended to notice him as he set his empty glass on the bar

Sherlock had been aware that there were eyes upon him, it was part of his job to know when he was being watched, he knew that John's gaze would be following him, but he was intrigued to realise that there were two pairs burning into him. He stopped himself from scanning the room, John was the priority, 'A large glass of water please.' The barman nodded and turned his back on him, just as a figure drew up beside him, he was very close, Sherlock was pretty sure this man was overstepping the usual social barriers of closeness, having done it many times himself.

'Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe. You don't change do you?'

Sherlock turned and looked at the man beside him, he was almost the exact same height as himself, he had blonde hair, straight, a few strands of the fringe dangled in front of his eyes, they were a very dark blue, which were startling against the paleness of his skin. He had freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, it gave him a boyish appearance despite the lines around his eyes and mouth, they showed laughter, but he still looked hollow, like he had been through hard times. Sherlock could have analysed the expensive suit that had been recently laundered for the eighth time, or the cut on the mans hand, from a knife, probably cutting food like vegetables, or even the long faded scar on the mans eyebrow. Instead all Sherlock did was hold out a hand and force out the words

'William. Its been- a long time.'

'You do recognise me then?' The man smiled and his eyes shone with pleasure

'Of course, you haven't changed that much either… Willie.'

'Gosh, it's been a while since anyone called me that, then again, you were the only person that did anyway.'The man's piercing eyes scanned Sherlock's face and he felt heat rise into his cheeks, he was usually the one looking intently at someone to figure out their past. William didn't need to interrogate Sherlock with his gaze to do that, he was doing that for completely different reasons.

A glass of water was placed the infront of Sherlock and the elderly moustached man looked suspiciously between the two of them, their heads were close together and there was a tension that had seemed to come out of nowhere. The barman assumed with a smirk that they must be some of 'those types'.

'Water Sherlock? What's the matter, fallen on hard times?' The man smiled a half smile, and blinked slowly, it was quite hypnotic and Sherlock found himself stuttering

'No, er,no its for my John, I mean, my friend John, hes had a bit too much, its his birthday.'

'Oh I see. Did you buy him something nice? I seem to recall you were good at giving presents-'

'A watch, I got him a watch, because that's what friends do.' Sherlock realised that he was coming across badly, and for some reason he felt the need to impress William, so he changed tack

'How long has it been? What were we? Fifteen?'

William raised his eyebrow and stroked his chin, 'Yea, sounds about right, we celebrated your sixteenth together, do you remember that?' The blue eyes burned for a split second in memory

'Yes. Yes of course I remember.'

And Sherlock did remember, he remembered as he and his best friend had stolen away into the night, after he had had to endure a laborious birthday meal with his family, to which William was invited. They had stolen furtive glances at each other the entire time, both holding a secret, knowledge of what was to come later that evening, making each other smirk and blush when their eyes met over the roast pheasant, a somewhat embarrassing cliché now Sherlock looked back on it.

'Your blushing Sherlock, trip down memory lane is it?' William had placed a hand over his, and he snatched it away, snapping his head to the corner where John sat, still staring, taking in everything,

'Didn't you tell him about me Sherlock? About what happened-'

'What almost happened Willie-'

'Yes because you chickened out, I would have gone through with it-

'Of course you would have, it was your idea, everything was always your idea-'

'You never said no though, well, right up until-'

'It was the look on the womans face, it just put me off-

'I know exactly what it was Sherlock. Cowardice. Its ok, I was never angry with you, not really.'

'I know. You were my best friend-'

'Oh I think goes beyond that Sherlock-'

'Look I have to go, Johns been watching and I don't want him to get the wrong idea.'

' Where does that leave me then Sherlock?' And then Willie did that thing that he always did, he took in a deep breath, and let out a long sigh, drew his eyebrows together and slowly licked his bottom lip and then when he knew Sherlock would do anything he asked, said ' You want to see me again, right? To have a proper catch up.'

'Of course. Give me your number I'll call you when-

'No Sherlock. I'll call you. Give me your number.'

John saw Sherlock reach his long arm down the bar and grab a beer mat before sliding it infront of him, he then took a pen out and starting writing something on it. It was only when he passed it to the strange blonde man that John realised it was probably a phone number, _Sherlock's giving him his number? What the hell does this mean? Maybe he's a potential client. Must be. Only possible reason really. Its Sherlock for god's sake. He doesn't get chatted up, and when he does he ignores them, or mocks them or exploits them. Fine. New Client. Good. Where's my bloody water? _Just before John had summoned the energy to get annoyed at his missing beverage it was slammed down in front of him, the liquid swished to one side of the glass before moving back and spilling over the side, spreading out onto the table, Sherlock hadn't noticed.

'Drink up John. Quickly if you please.'

John didn't ask why, Sherlock's face was twisted into a strange frown, he almost looked in pain, but he looked angry and excited at the same time, it was a new expression and John realised that it probably had something to do with the stranger. He took a gulp of water before trying casually to question his flatmate

'So, that bloke at the bar, was he chatting you up or?' He had a laugh and a grin, trying to make it a joke, but he realised his own voice sounded strained. Again though, Sherlock hadn't noticed

'No. He was nobody. Went to school with him. That's it, right we're going.'

'I've not drank my-'

'NOW, John.'

There was no arguing with him in this mood, John knew that. It had come out of nowhere, all he knew was the Sherlock as agitated and that could only be a bad thing. Gulping down two more mouthfuls of water he stood up, Sherlock shoved his jacket in his hands and stormed out of the door. John turned away from where his friend had exited and looked towards the bar. The blonde man was leaning casually against it, one ankle tucked behind the other, one elbow on the varnished wooden top, he waved at John, but it was sly, airy, moving one finger after another on his long spidery hand, then he winked at John, and turned his back on him, leaving him feeling confused, angry and a little scared. This man was not 'nobody', he knew that for certain.

It had been almost a week since Johns birthday and Sherlock had barely spoken a word. He hadn't come out of his room the first two days, and when he finally did he was snappy, aggressive and didn't eat. He kept checking his phone every few minutes, John hoped he was just eager for a case but something told him it wasn't that. Finally, after realising that Sherlock had hardly eaten for seven days, John decided to confront him. He placed a carefully constructed meal of tuna pasta bake with garlic bread in front of his friend, and when Sherlock blew air out his nose and turned away he sat down in front of him;

'Sherlock, I've had enough. You're not eating, you're not speaking and its all since you spoke to that man in the pub. What the hell did he say?'

Sherlock shot him condescending glance and shook his head

'Was he threatening you?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up

'Sherlock I'm serious you have to stop keeping things from me, last time you didn't tell me something it almost killed us both.'

Sherlock had been walking away and suddenly he froze and whirled around, suddenly he looked frightening, he had a crazed look in his eyes, 'I don't you anything John! I lie to you all the time, to protect you!' He added in a disturbing sing song voice 'What you don't know can't hurt you!'

'What Sherlock? What aren't you telling me?' John kept his temper but he could feel an acidic, sickened feeling in the pit of his stomach, Sherlock would crack and he was dreading what he would discover.

'Well I didn't tell you about the time I grew poisonous mould in the bread bin, or the time I put a human liver in the toaster. I didn't tell you that when I was younger I got bullied a lot, even in a public boarding school where everyone was rich and supposedly civilised, I didn't tell you that I've only ever had one other best friend and he came with me from primary school to boarding school but then when I was sixteen I stopped speaking to him because of something that I nearly did and that after all these years seeing him in that pub brought my whole horrid childhood back. Oh and I also didn't tell you that your ex fiancé is pregnant with your child. So you see John, there are lots of things I don't tell you, but it really doesn't matter because you knowing doesn't change anything for the better.'

John sat there totally stunned. The bread bin and the human liver were nothing, he suspected there was something more to be said about Sherlock's newly returned childhood best friend, but the one thing that John could not wrap his head around was that-

'Marys pregenant!'

'Yes, that's what I just said.'

'She's pregnant. And you didn't tell me? How did you know!'

'I didn't know, I saw. And then she saw that I knew and asked me not to tell you. I wanted her out of our lives so I agreed.'

'That wasn't your decision to make Sherlock! She's having my baby!'

'She might have got rid of it. I would have done in her cituation-'

'YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT HUMAN EMOTIONS!'

'I have studied-

'THAT'S NOT THE SAME! You don't get it, you don't understand how I feel right now, or how Mary was feeling, you don't feel jealousy, or love or loyalty. YOU DON'T FEEL ANYTHING!'

John couldn't see straight, he wanted to call Mary and to strangle Sherlock.

'Right I'm going to see Mary. Right now.'

'John don't leave-'

'Shut up Sherlock, don't even speak to me, go back to being quiet.'

'This is why I don't tell you things. I hate it when you're angry with me.' Sherlock's voice was timid, he sat down staring into space while John stomped around gathering his coat and shoes. He grabbed his wallet but before he disappeared out of the door he turned around and hissed at Sherlock 'You better go find that other friend of yours, because right now he's the only one you have.'

Sherlock sat alone, the sky outside grew darker and cast the living room into shadow, he let the darkness descend upon him, it was the perfect physical representation for the inner torment of his soul, his heart, whatever it was that made him feel this terrible whenever John wasn't around. John had been right, he may never understand human emotion but it didn't mean he didn't feel them. It was strange really, he tried to avoid emotions because he couldn't rationalise them, analyse them as well as more physical acts, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't eradicate them completely. He still felt anger, and pain, and, in some very rare instances, even something akin to love. He wondered if John would really go and see Mary, and whether the prospect of becoming a father would guilt him into re- establishing their relationship. After everything that had happened, all the talking and the tears and laughter, Sherlock could still lose John. Sherlock felt his chest tightened and hated himself for giving into his human nature, he cursed John for making him care, despised him for the hold he had over him, it was just like being fifteen again, only this time John didn't know the effect he had over Sherlock. William had always known.

It was as if by magic, or divide intervention, that at the precise moment that William had snaked his way into Sherlocks mind, his phone started ringing. With a shaking hand, again annoyed at himself, he picked up from the coffee table and held it to his ear.

'Sherlock. Glad you ansered. Where do you live? I'm coming for a visit'

'I don't think it's a good idea-'

He heard the sigh turn into a small growl like chuckle, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up

'Don't be boring Sherlock. John won't mind.

'Johns not in. 221B Baker Street.'

The phone went dead, not so much as a thank you or a goodbye. Sherlock finally switched on the lights and absent mindedly tidied the flat, moving papers into neater piles, throwing away the meal he had left untouched. He didn't even like garlic bread, he only ever ate it to make John happy. Stupid, simple John. Not like William, William was clever, devious and manipulative. He made Sherlock's skin crawl, but it wasn't entirely an unpleasant feeling.

After about half an hour there was a ring on the doorbell and Sherlock descended the steps to remove the latch and let his guest in. He noticed the sound of the rain rushing from the sky as he opened the door wide and his eyebrows shot to the top of his head as he came face to face with his former best friend, drenched the bone, his hair releasing droplets of water onto his delicate face that already shone bright, the tip of his nose had gone a rosy red from the cold.

'Come in then, before you catch your death.'

William slipped by him and Sherlock gestured for him to head upstairs, he followed him closely as they entered the living room

'You never had a problem with death when I knew you Sherlock. John must have changed you.'

'He's house trained me a bit.'

'Not too much I hope, still a bit of the wild animal in you.'

'I don't think I was ever what you would call wild Willie.'

William surveyed the room before settling himself upon the sofa, his long legs stretched out luxuriously before him and his arms folded behind his head. He looked up at Sherlock and their eyes remained locked as Sherlock took the armchair opposite.

'You were wild enough for me Sherlock. John noticed me I suppose; did you tell him about ourpast?'

'No, I had some other secrets for him to deal with first without him knowing about what we almost did.'

All of Sherlock's attention was fixed on the man on his sofa, his eyes ghosted over his face, down his neck, remembering the smell, the bitter taste of teeth on flesh, the top of the shirt, white. It reminded him of the school shirts they used to wear. Willie could open a shirt with one hand whilst grabbing a handful of hair and demanding full attention of the lips of whom it was attached to. He was too distracted to hear a creak of a stair outside.

'So he doesn't know anything? About how much a bad person you are' William licked his bottom lip

'No. Look we never actually went through with it-

'Yes, yes I know. Because of the poor woman's face.'

'I've never seen anyone look so scared and horrified. Well back then I hadn't'

'I think it would have been even more horrified if we'd carried on-'

'Yes but I can't, I'm not that heartless I can't just-

'I know Sherlock. It saved your soul, so don't keep apologising.'

'I still see her face sometimes, when I go to sleep-'

'Jesus Sherlock you do have a conscience after all.'

'Not much of one. If John ever found out-'

'Johns already figured it out.' John entered the living room, also drenched, face as white as a sheet and eyes as dark as pitch

'John I-' Sherlock began

'No Sherlock, I've had enough, you lie and lie an then I find out that Donavan was right all along, you are a freak!'

'John I hardly think that what I nearly did-'

'JUST BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T GO THROUGH WITH IT DOESN'T MEAN YOUR NOT WRONG IN THE HEAD SHERLOCK. That poor woman, what was it first? Setting cats on fire, drowning hamsters? That's what your type usually do isn't it?. I cant believe I stuck up for you. No wonder you like doing what you do, it's like you admire these murderers because theyre as twisted as you are!'

'John you said you were fine with anything-'

'Well I guess I was wrong! I've had enough Sherlock.' John pushed past him, took a larger coat and an umbrella from the stand. 'I'm going to stay with Harry for a bit. I'll be back tomorrow morning to get some stuff but for now I just need to get out of here. Don't text me or call me or try to get to me because it won't work, im turning my phone off.' Sherlock followed John to the top of the stairs to try and stop him, grabbing at his jacket, but he just yanked his arm out of his grasp

'Get away from me Sherlock.' John descended the stairs leaving Sherlock breathing heavily and trying to collect his thoughts and turn them into words but all attempt failed. John threw open the door and looked back, disgust etched upon his face like carvings in stone, 'I always knew you were odd Sherlock but I never thought you'd go as far as to plan to kill someone. You are a psychopath after all'

Sherlock blinked in confusion as the door slammed shut, parts of his brain that had shut down due to hurt started to wake up again.

'Wait. Kill someone? What? JOHN NO WAIT!' He realised that John had got the totally wrong idea, he thought the woman was a victim, an experiment, of torture or murder or something else. Sherlock jumped half of the staircase and ran out into the rain, it was torrential, he was soaked instantly but he span around wildly looking for Johns frame disappearing into the rain. He couldn't see anything; he must have got a cab straight outside. He delved his hand into his pocket and brought out his phone, he pressed John on speed dial but it said that it was unable to connect. Sherlock felt like running and running in an attempt to find John but he knew it waste of time. Instead he collapsed in the middle of pavement, onto his hands and knees and let out a roar of rage, frustration and anguish at the river running down the concrete, weaving between his grasping fingers. His John thought him a murderer, or, close enough. Tears cascaded down his face and mingled with the rain on the ground. He felt nauseasm. He couldn't lose John again. It had been a horrible, horrible day.

Sherlock eventually made his way inside, cold to the core. When he entered the living room William was stood with a blanket he must have found in the airing cupboard. He was holding out corner to corner, Sherlock just walked forward into it and he enfolded him into it, bringing him close to him. They stood, chest to chest, Sherlock resting his head on William's shoulder, William curling his hand around Sherlock's head and holding it there, unable to see his face, Sherlock didn't see the devilish grin upon his old friend's face.


	8. Chapter 8

John Watson was always nervous when he went to his sister's house uninvited, especially this late at night, it was gone ten at night and he was never entirely sure what state she would be in, whether it was late, or an early Sunday morning, the chances of finding her in a drunken stupor had once been equal in any circumstance. However, it was unlikely that she would make him feel quite as awful as Sherlock had done. John tried to hold back the revulsion in his throat, he had trusted the man entirely and to learn that about him, that he had almost killed, or hurt a defenceless woman- it didn't bear thinking about. Images circled in his brain, Sherlock, wild eyed wielding surgical implements, the blonde man in the back ground; whose name he had overheard was William, gazing at Sherlock with pride. A woman crying and terrified. John shook the images out of his head as he knocked on Harry's door, he heard footsteps coming closer to the door and prepared himself for whatever state she was in.

'What's so special about him anyway Sherlock? He's so dull and ordinary' William gazed intently at Sherlock over a generous glass of whisky, watching as Sherlock poured himself one. He was back in his former position, stretched out on the sofa, as if the flat was his own.

'John is spectacularly ordinary. That's what makes him interesting.' Sherlock took a large gulp of his own Whiskey, wincing as the liquid rand down his gullet, warming him from the inside. He was wearing his grey t shirt and baggy tracksuit bottoms that he usually wore only to bed, and accompanied them with his blue silken dressing gown.

'You should have held out for someone with more potential.'

'What like you, Willie? John and I aren't like that. We're just friends.'

'Is he straight?'

'Very. Well, most of the time.'

'Most of the time?' William leaned forward and tilted his head up to look Sherlock directly in the eyes.

'Yes, odd times, I see something, the way he stares. I don't know.'

'Well you are very enticing, my old friend.'

Sherlock looked down at the hand that had just been placed just above his knee; he dragged his eyes upwards to look into the face of its owner.

'Willie what are you doing?'

'Finishing off where we left off all those years ago'

Suddenly William sprang, swift and agile, without warning, and his hand had left the knee and was in Sherlock's hair, he leaned over him, one hand resting on the back of the armchair where Sherlock sat, paralysed with terror. It had been so long, and he had forgotten how things went. Williams arm was held against Sherlock's cheek as it snaked around so that his hand could entangle itself tighter in the dark curls. Sherlock hissed as his hair was tugged and his head was yanked backwards, it was painful, but something about that excited him. That was what William exploited. Before he had become accustomed the closeness of the man's face to his, Sherlock felt lips pressed to his, hungry and aggressive. At first he was unresponsive, but a sharp bite on his bottom lips made him gasp, which left his mouth vulnerable for an assault. It had been a long time since anyone's tongue had explored his mouth like that, or at all. William was relentless, before long he got bored of just dominating Sherlock's mouth and began a more invasive manoeuvre. He let go of the back of the arm chair and grabbed the front of Sherlock's t shirt. He dragged him, half by the t shirt, half by the clump of hair he still had a firm grasp of. Sherlock knew better than to resist and was span round and pushed roughly on the sofa, he barely had time to shift himself into a more comfortable lying down position before William had claimed his mouth again, his time he had hold of Sherlock's wrists, pinning him down, straddling his waist and bending down to devour his prey like an overgrown vulture. His mouth left Sherlock's, once again nipping his lip; he put his lips instead against Sherlock's ear and whispered dangerously;

'Come on Sherlock, you remember how this works, I lead, you follow.' He dug his fingernails into Sherlock's wrists to assert his statement, but there was something in his friends eyes, it was new and it didn't take William long to find out what it was. With one swift movement Sherlock had raised his knees underneath William and thrown him off and sent him crashing to the floor, eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

Sherlock stood up and positioned himself over William, one foot either side of his hips, dominant, for the first time.

'I thought you already knew. A lot's changed since we were teenagers. Get up William, and walk that way.' Sherlock pointed down the corridor to his room. William who was both panting with shock, humiliation and lust was overcome by just the latter emotion and scrabbled, almost humorously out of the room, still not quite vertical. Sherlock smirked and licked his bottom lip; he could taste his own blood where he had been bitten. Someone would have to pay for that…

John sat on his sister's sofa clutching a chipped mug, it was decorated with a smudged and deformed looking daisy, hand painted by Harry herself as gift to her former wife. John realised he had even started to think like Sherlock. Well, not entirely.

'So dear brother, what brings you to my humble abode?' Harriet sat down across from him on a padded footstool that looked set to break under her weight. The creek it made as she crossed her legs made her pull a comical face but otherwise she ignored it. 'Wait! Let me guess, you and Sherly have had a domestic?'

'Sort of. I don't wanna talk about it Harry, if that's ok?'

'No, it's not ok, but fine. We can talk about something else. For a start how did the sneaky bastard manage to fake his own death? What's that about?'

'Can we just not talk about him at all please'? John couldn't bring himself to use Sherlock's name, it tasted bitter on his tongue.

'Erm right. Ok. Well, to be honest, I don't know what else to suggest because he's normally all you ever talk about- but yea, sorry. Have you watched the film I bought you for your birthday yet?'

John tried to make conversation, answering her questions, listening to her problems and nodding apologetically when he needed to. His mind was fixed on his flatmate. Everything he had ever believed in had been shaken. John wasn't a religious man but for some reason finding out that Sherlock had almost hurt someone was like finding out god wasn't real. Then again he realised, Christians got told he wasn't real all the time, just like John had been told what Sherlock was really like, over and over again, and like Christians or those with faith, he had just smiled but carried on believing. This is probably why Sherlock had warned him not to turn him into a hero, it hadn't stopped him though, and now he had found out that his Superman couldn't fly, and he was once on the side of the villains. William definitely felt like a villain, there was just something about his cold stare, the oozing arrogance that John didn't trust. He hadn't even spoken to this man and he could just tell he was all wrong, and yet, Sherlock seemed to like him. Although, he had seemed frightened of him at first, he had been jittery and aggressive, and even when he spoke him there was a meekness in his voice that John had never heard before. So Sherlock was frightened of this man, perhaps of what he knew, what other horrible secrets could this William have unearthed, the image of Sherlock as a maniac flashed back into his mind, wild eyed and blood stained. John realised he hadn't been responding for the last few seconds and thought he's ask the question that would send Harriet ranting long enough for him to tease through his confused thoughts

'So, what's the story with you and Clara, you've got the mug out again but I can't see any of her stuff, you two friends now or what?'

'John, you have no idea, she's been calling me up, crying, banging on the door, I mean I want her back but deep down I know It won't work out , I mean it didn't the first time and-'

John was able to go back to nodding and shaking his head when appropriate whilst considering the events of the last few days. He had more than just Sherlock to stress about; after going to see Mary he had discovered that he was in fact going to be a father.

When John had gone to visit her, Mary had answered her front door and immediately started to close it again,

'No wait, Mary I know about the baby. Sherlock told me.'

The door crept slowly open again and John could see through the opening that Mary had gained a little weight around the middle, also her face was fuller and her eyes brighter, she was prettier than he had seen her in a long time. He suspected it was his fault; he had drained her in their time together.

'I suppose you had best come in then John.'

He followed her through to the sitting room. It was miniscule, barely enough room to cram the furniture she had into it, it felt cosy though, homely enough for it to be comfortable. Mary eased herself down on the opposite end of the sofa; there was not much distance between them, but the bump between them created a gulf.

'You don't need to look so frightened John, I don't want anything from you' Mary reached forward and took John's hand in hers

'That's not the point; I still had a right to know – if it's my baby too.'

'Of course it's yours, I know we didn't have a great relationship in the end but I'd still never cheat on you.'

'I know. It's just a lot to take in.' John had been looking at the floor, he forced himself to look at Mary's face and then let his eyes slide slowly to her stomach, slightly protruding, only a few months gone, not old enough to have started kicking. John was somewhat grateful for that, he knew it would have been awkward if Mary had asked him to feel it kicking, like an invasion of personal space, it wouldn't be like in the films where it was a warm and special moment; things were too complicated.

'Do you know what gender it is yet?'

'No, and I don't want to, I want it to be a surprise.' She smiled, she really did look very pretty, John remembered why he had made himself love her, or, as close as he was capable to it. _God_ he thought_ I sound like Sherlock._

They had talked about how Mary was, how the baby was doing, friends, family. She really was easy to talk to, John realised how perfect they would have been had he not ruined it by pining after Sherlock. Mary had asked about Sherlock but John could see that, fortunately, she wasn't really interested, so he was able to move the conversation on to arrangements when the baby was born.

'I still can't believe that in a few months I'm going to be a dad. It's scary.'

'I know John, and if you can't handle it I understand.'

'No, I really want to do this, I know it will be difficult but, I'm different now, I can deal with things'

'Yes you look healthier than you ever were when we were together; Sherlock must be doing you some good.' Her smile was strained, but John could tell she was trying to be happy for him, which was nice.

'It's not like that, we're not- I don't know how to describe it.' He realised he was delving into dangerous territory, and quickly tried to lighten to mood. 'What about names? Have you thought of any?'

'Not really, I mean, I quite like Rosa for a girl and maybe Thomas for a boy, but it's only an initial idea.'

'Yea, there nice names I guess. Anyway look I best get back-'

They had left on good terms, with Johns promise to visit again and to be present at the next scan. He had been ready to tell Sherlock, but his return home hadn't been quite what he had expected.

'John? Are you listening?'

John snapped back his reminiscence of his visit to Mary's had taken up his entire consciousness and he had been sat, mouth open and eyes dormant.

'Sorry Harry, oh yea, I forgot to tell you, you're going to be an aunt. I'm having a baby, Well, Mary is, and I'm the dad.

'WHAT! WHY HAS IT TAKEN YOU THIS LONG TO TELL ME SOMETHING LIKE THAT?'

'I don't really know.' John starting laughing and Harry leaned over to hug him, he hugged her back, it was heart-warming,

'Does Sherlock know?'

'Oh. Him. Yea he figured it out before me. Wanker.'

'Well yea he is, it took you long enough to figure it out thought' Harry started giggling which set John off again, it reminded him of the laughter he had shared with Mrs Hudson and Sherlock on that fateful day.

'Come on John, something's obviously bothering you, why don't you tell me?'

'Maybe tomorrow, I'm knackered, what time is it? It's been a long day.'

'It's half past two in the morning. Jesus. You can kip on the sofa if you need to stay over?'

John gave her what he hoped was a grateful smile and she patted him on the shoulder as she went to fetch some blankets and a pillow. It wasn't the most comfortable place he had ever slept but John Watson had found out he was a father and the friend of a murderer in the space of a very long day, he was asleep as soon as his head hit the lumpy pillow.

Sherlock stood at the bottom of his bed, his eyes roaming across the near naked form that was stretched out in front of him. William was four belts attached to him, one on each limb, securing him to the four corners of the bedframe, his eyes were bright with excitement and he was breathing quickly. As much as he tried, Sherlock didn't care. He surveyed everything, every inch of bare skin, the flushed lips, the ruffled hair but nothing made Sherlock want William. He had out grown him; he had known that from the moment they had met again, he still saw him as a threat but he didn't see him as a sexual being anymore, he was a ghost of the past that was threatening the friendship that he and John had, and that just wouldn't do.

He held his riding crop in his hand and stroked his across Williams inner thigh, before placing on his chest and spoke in a low purr, but it was deadly and chilling.

'I'm going to bed. You have two choices, you go now and never come back, don't try and stop me finding John, or I go upstairs, sleep in Johns room and leave you here all night and as long as it takes to bring John home tomorrow morning. Up to you.'

'You are kidding aren't you? This is part of the game right?'

Sherlock grabbed a handful of Williams's hair and tugged his head back, for a change.

'No. I'm serious; I don't want you anywhere near me. I don't want you.'

'You're lying. To yourself, you know what you are, you can't help yourself.'

'Maybe I am what you think I am, but I still want nothing to do with you, do you understand? Leave me alone, for good.'

'I'm not going anywhere Sherlock until you finish what we started!' William tried to wiggle his way out of his restraints, his naked torso writhed like a snake, Sherlock could see him for what he really was.

'Fine. As you wish. Goodnight William.' Sherlock went to his wardrobe and took out a tie that someone had given him as a gift once, he rolled it up and went back to William, stuffed the tie in his mouth and without another glance behind him, walked out of the room and to Johns room where he slept peaceful until the first light of dawn spread it's fingers through the gaps in the curtains.

John was awoken by a loud banging on the front door. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch, the shook his head, the watch Sherlock at bought him. It said quarter to seven in the morning. He groaned as he pulled himself to sit upright, the banging continued, John had got a nagging suspicion he knew who the culprit was. Just as Harry, wild haired and furious had reached the last step on her staircase a voice came through the letter box

'John? John! Let me talk, I didn't kill anyone, I didn't even try, it was nothing like that. It's not something I'm exactly proud of but it's nothing in the grand scheme of things!'

John couldn't see that Sherlock would lie, it wasn't logical; if he had tried to kill someone he would have probably attempted to justify it _'it was an experiment, for the greater good John!' _ would have been a likely excuse. Instead his flatmate was outright denying it, perhaps then, he was telling the truth

'Please John, you know me better than that.'

He was right of course, but still, it wasn't difficult to believe that Sherlock had once been a disturbed young man, he seemed to be becoming more human every day, John had always dreaded to think what he had been like as a teenager.

'The Woman, she wasn't a victim, she just- well she saw something she didn't really want to see. I didn't want her to see. John don't make me shout this through a letterbox.'

Harry had been stood at the front door, arms folded glaring at John, who was still on the sofa. She unfolded her arms and turned her palms face up, silently asking what to do. He nodded and she unlocked the front door, Sherlock tumbled through it, almost falling completely to the ground. He regained his composure and clapped eyes on John, then darted over to him and sank to his knees in front of him, it really was quite alarming; out of the corner of his eye he saw his sister smirk.

'John please hear me out.' Sherlock pleaded.

'Alright, that's what I'm doing isn't it?'

'The woman that you think I tried to kill. I didn't, I never touched her, I never went near her, she followed me.'

'Followed you where? And why?'

'William and I were, well we snuck into her stable, she and her husband owned a farm not far from our estate.'

John forced himself not to smile; he could imagine the Holmes family estate, all grandiose furniture and peacocks. Of course there would be land nearby.

'She saw us sneaking in, we had a torch so she must have seen the light, probably thought we were going to trash the place or steal something.'

'Weren't you?' Harry piped up; she had sat down on the stairs, staying out of the way but still able to hear everything. Sherlock didn't seem to care; he didn't turn around to answer her.

'We didn't mean any harm, it was my sixteenth birthday and-' he broke off, he had gone very pale, paler than usual and he was wringing his hands, John guessed he was coming to the crux of the story and steeled himself, maybe they had been teasing the horses, or maybe…

'She burst in, expecting to see two teenage boys smoking probably, or putting things in rucksacks, instead she walked into a pile of discarded clothes and William and I just about to – well, he was on top of me and we were going to –' Sherlock didn't need to finish, he could see by Johns wide eyes and gravity defying eyebrows that he got the picture. The naked, sweaty, sexually charged picture.

Sherlock took a deep breath and continued

'It wasn't as acceptable back then. It wasn't even my idea, I wasn't completely sure it was what I wanted but William had managed to convince me, he was good at that, and it wasn't like we hadn't don't other things. It was just the look of disgust and horror on her face, she definitely wasn't expecting that.'

The image of Sherlock, bloody shirted and yielding a torture weapon, had totally changed in Johns head. Instead it consisted of Sherlock, shirtless and lying on a bed of straw, rosy cheeked from lust, and William looming over him, sliding his hand lower and lower on his torso. It made John's blood boil, he clenched his teeth and tried to hide it, but as usual, Sherlock noticed, but got the wrong idea.

'I thought you'd understand, I mean Harry's- well.'

Harry knew exactly what she was, and decided that it was her time to step in. She glided over in her towelling bathrobe and Hello Kitty nightgown and let out in an relentless booming voice

'So Sherlock is gay! I bloody knew you were! Takes one to know one, I told you John!'

John was still trying to steady himself, he knew it was irrational to be angry, he wasn't cross with Sherlock, it was just the picture in his head, it made him livid, he wanted to pull William limb from limb. It didn't make sense, or at least, It did, but John couldn't abide by the truth, he couldn't actually be jealous could he? _Yes_ said a little voice _you know you feel something for him_. He mentally shook himself before raising his eyes to look at his best friend, his flatmate, the man who caused him so much anguish and confusion and merely said

'I told you, it's all fine Sherlock. Now if there are no more secrets, let's go home?'

Sherlock looked as if all his dreams had come true; he leapt up and waited for John to also alight his position on the sofa before throwing his arms around him and squeezing him hard, it was uncharacteristically human, but John realised that there were many things about Sherlock he didn't know, or didn't think possible. Harry was smirking again but said nothing as her brother and his – whatever Sherlock was to him – left her home. As long as they were happy, it mattered nothing to her what they labelled themselves, she just hoped that it would be the same for the rest of the world, but she sadly doubted it.

John hadn't exactly taken kindly to the mostly naked blonde man tied up in his flat but his aversion to William had slightly overshadowed his need to reprimand Sherlock for his blatant breaking of the law. It wasn't easy to pretend nothing had happened, John kept jumping if Sherlock touched him, he stopped walking around in his boxers; he knew it was ridiculous and he felt guilty, but the fact was that the realisation that Sherlock wasn't an entirely A sexual being had come as a shock and it made John a little unnerved. Finally after a couple of months of holding back, John finally broached the subject of his friend's sexuality, they were ironically, eating sausages.

'Sherlock why didn't you just tell me that you're gay?' John had decided not to be subtle; Sherlock placed his knife and fork down, having almost finished his meal, pushed his plate away and folded his hands on the table in front of him before speaking.

'John, this may be hard for you to understand or believe, but I am not gay.'

John let his mouth drop, Sherlock was right, he neither believed understood his friend

'No, you are, you nearly had sex with, well a man, and you admitted you did other things before, I'm guessing like kissing and stuff. It's ok to be gay'

'Like I said before John I know its ok, but I am not gay. For a start, as you pointed out, I never engaged in any form of intercourse –

'Ok Sherlock you don't have to be so-'

'And' Sherlock continued, 'I do not find men as a gender, sexually attractive nor appealing.'

John really did not understand, but as Sherlock's friend, he had decided he would make his best effort to change that.

'So why did you, almost, ya know, with William?'

'Because I wanted to. Or at least I thought I did.'

'So you fancied him them?'

'Yes. In fact I came closer to adoration than just _fancying _him; I was somewhat infatuated with him in my youth.

'So you were sort of in love with him then?' John wasn't sure if he could take much more, the clenching feeling in his stomach had got tighter and he knew it wasn't shock or confusion.

'In a sense, but not like a traditional relationship, I more idolised him than loved him, I thought he was brilliant and fascinating and he could manipulate me so easily'

John again felt a twinge, their relationship sounded similar to the one that himself and Sherlock shared, only it was John who was the obedient party; he supposed he should be grateful really that Sherlock wasn't as sadistic as William.

'I don't find an attraction in gender.' Sherlock had begun speaking very slowly, deliberately as though processing and weighing every word, 'I don't see a beautiful woman, or man, walk down the street and immediately want to take their clothes off.' For some reason John could feel himself going red, 'I think I am, how to put it, I think I desire people for their mind. I know it sounds like I'm pretending not to be shallow, the cliché of _its what's inside that counts_, but honestly, I couldn't care less if they rob banks or if they raise orphan children, if they have an incredible mind and they know how to use it, then I suppose, I am attracted to them. I'm afraid that's as clear as I can be.'

John had a name on his lips,

'Irene Adler.'

Sherlock smiled 'Exactly.'

It sort of made sense really, Sherlock, a brilliant man with incredible talents was only attracted to people's brains, it was an odd thought, odder still that the two people that Sherlock had been seen to want , William and Irene Adler, had both been beautiful on the outside too. John frowned, he could understand, cleverness and power did generally make people seem sexier, and in Sherlock's case it was just the extreme cases that made the cut. John felt a lump grow in his throat, he felt extremely strange, a sadness had enveloped him and he didn't know why. He tried to shake it off but he felt so down, like something horribly sad had just happened.

'Yea that's actually fair enough Sherlock, I'm just going to change my sheets in my room I think, so I can do a wash…' his voice trailed off at the end, luckily he could see that Sherlock had mistaken his sudden bout of melancholia for confusion and allowed him to leave the living room and retreat to the solitude of his room.

It wasn't until he was lying on his bed, staring up at his ceiling that he realised why he was feeling so low. Sherlock was only interested in people with a superior mind and he, ordinary John Watson was not one of those people. He knew it shouldn't bother him, it was more prudent and appropriate for Sherlock not to fancy him, but he couldn't help feeling extremely disappointed, even if he couldn't reciprocate Sherlock's feelings, it would be nice if he had some. John could have easily sat moping in his room all day if Sherlock hadn't called up the stairs 'We've got a new case!' this caused him to haul himself off his bed and trot obediently downstairs to find out just what adventure Sherlock had in store for him…


	9. Chapter 9 Part 1

**I decided i couldn't wait any longer to publish this so chapter 9 is a two parter, i said i'd do a ten chapter story so this is me cheating slightly (Chapter ten might also be in two parts and have an epilogue) Hey If JK can do it, why not me? Hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it! Let me know! 3**

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><p>The Big Reveal.<p>

John had figured out that life with Sherlock Holmes could be dangerous, pursued, shot at, and had bombs strapped to him, but none of that mattered because the excitement that he felt when he was on a case, or an adventure, was worth anything. Or so he thought.

Neither John nor Sherlock had realised just what they were getting themselves into, as John had bounded down the stairs to accompany his flatmate on another crime fighting escapade he had no idea the danger he would face. They had started on the trail of a missing teenage boy, Sherlock had been emailed by his worried parents, afraid he had ran off or been kidnapped. When John and Sherlock had managed to track him down, they hadn't expected to find his head separated from his body, stuck on a wooden pike with his mouth sewn shut. They immediately alerted the police, Lestrade had been one of the first on the scene, professional as usual

'Jesus Christ that's horrible' the Detective inspector shook his head ran his hands over his cheeks, feeling the stubble, it had been an early, unexpected start to the day and he hadn't had time to shave, 'Did you know it would be like this Sherlock?'

Sherlock was still surveying the crime scene, watched by the annoyed officers of Scotland Yard, their eyes glaring. As usual John answered for his friend

'No, we got a message from parents of a missing teen; we thought he was a run away, nothing much more. Or at least, that's what Sherlock told me.' John raised his eyebrows and Lestrade nodded knowingly _Sherlock often leaves me out of the loop_; he didn't need to say it for the DI to understand.

'Well it's a very distinctive kill, serial killer starting out maybe? Getting his signature early?' Lestrade looked over to Sherlock for some feedback, or, more likely, praise. He got neither.

' No I think it was gang related, or maybe drugs, the sewing of the mouth like this shows that whoever did it thought this kid was a snitch, he'd talked, maybe given information on a deal or something. Check records for any drug dealers or any criminals that were put in prison, or even just arrested on the information of someone claiming to be on the inside.' John nodded habitually, then had a thought of his own

'This boy's called Chris Peterson, why not check his criminal record, see if he's involved in any gangs or anything like that?'

Lestrade nodded at him appreciatively, Sherlock had looked up and was staring at John, but John didn't notice, which is when Sherlock realised, he wasn't looking for his recognition, John was being clever because he wanted to solve the case, not to impress him. And that was just brilliant.

They had managed to convince Lestrade to let them take records back to Baker Street, so Sherlock and John spent hours going through folders, searching for any connection that the decapitated boy may have to any criminals. He had been totally clean in terms of previous convictions, so they were left with all of the offenders who had been 'grassed on' and arrested due to a mystery informant. The clock had just struck midnight when John threw the folder he had been looking through to the ground and sat back in his chair with a groan.

'Can't we take a break Sherlock? I mean there's nothing I love more than reading the words 'actual bodily harm' over and over again-' Sherlock chuckled '- but I think we need to leave it for tonight, give our brains a rest.'

Sherlock turned his head slowly to look at John, raising his eyebrows as he did so

'Alright, fine, give my ordinary brain a rest' John amended, Sherlock smiled at him

'Your brain may not be the exquisite machine that mine is-'This time is was Johns turn to laugh. 'But it is my no means ordinary, I find you quite brilliant, sometimes. Not always but, the odd time...' Sherlock trailed off at the end before standing up and heading towards the kitchen, John felt a hot flush creeping up his neck, his palms began to sweat, he couldn't figure it out but the all the air in the flat seemed stifling,

'Sherlock?'

He heard an 'mm' noise from the kitchen

'Fancy a drink or something? There's some beer in the fridge I think.'

'John we're working-

'We're on a break

'Getting me drunk won't achieve anything you know'

'What?' John yelped, and his elbow that had been supporting his head slipped sideways off the table, sending his chin thudding into the wood.

'FFFU- OW.'

Sherlock came back into view carrying two bottles of beer, and frowning,

'Your chins read.'

'Yea thanks Sherlock, I guessed it would be after I smacked it on the table' he rubbed the sore spot feeling idiotic, waiting for the jibe he thought would inevitably come; he was wrong. Sherlock sat back down at the table passing John one of the beers; he moved his chair closer and stretched out his hand towards Johns face,

'Sherlock what you doing?' John recoiled, like dodging a bullet.

'John stop fidgeting, I'm taking a look at your chin – to make sure it's not bleeding on the files'

'Right well, I'm fine.' John had leaned as far away as possible, forcing himself against the chair back, almost tilting it, the front two legs were only just touching the floor,

'Don't be ridiculous John, as a doctor you should sometimes accept that you're the one that needs looking after.'

John felt trapped, Sherlock had moved himself right to edge of his chair, he was almost hovering off it to lean forward, the pale, spidery hand got closer. John felt ridiculous; it was completely irrational for his mouth to be dry or for him to be able to hear his heartbeat pounding in ears. Time slowed down to an unbearable speed as the hand got closer and closer. John wanted more than anything to screw his eyes up, to prepare himself for whatever sensations that hand on his cheek would bring but his brain told him that closing is eyes would seem more accepting than dreading. No amount of delayed time could have equipped John for the feeling of Sherlock's spidery fingers sliding across his cheek, his palm cupping his chin. With each passing second the skin where Sherlock was touching changed from burning hot to freezing ice cold, his strange green eyes stared at the red mark near John's jawline, totally oblivious to the effect the contact was causing. To distract himself, John started to count Sherlock's eyelashes, praying with each one that he wasn't revealing his feelings. He knew he couldn't deny them, not to himself, he had been struggling to supress it for so long. He didn't know exactly what it was but he knew that Sherlock was so much more than a friend, when he was gone, John felt like half a person, he couldn't walk into a room without immediately looking towards Sherlock, he sought his approval, his opinion, even his affection but this was more affection than he could physically take. John had often allowed him to make excuses to touch his flatmate, squeezing past him when he could have gone round, passing him things and letting his hand linger on the object a second too long, but he had always told himself it was because he still couldn't believe Sherlock was back, alive. He thought he needed to touch him to prove his existence; he actually needed to touch him because really, Sherlock was his existence. He was the only thing John woke up for and wouldn't change that for the world. He could feel two of Sherlock's slender fingers ghosting from his jawline to his neck. He felt the two fingers pushing down and for a split second he was confused, his brain caught up just as Sherlock spoke

'Your pulse is racing John.' Sherlock's voice was softer than he had ever heard it, he was staring at him, his head slightly tilted and his lips parted, John just stared back and swallowed hard, his voice was trapped in his throat ,Sherlock nibbled his bottom lip before continuing to fill the thick silence

'You feel a bit warm too actually; maybe you're coming down with something, maybe a fever of some sort.' The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched into a half smirk, it was the arrogant, self-important smirk that he had when he had done something particularly clever. It drove John's insides crazy and that was when he finally lost control.

He rose slightly out of his chair and lurched forward, for a split second he paused at the stunned expression on Sherlock's face as he hovered inches above him, but he decided that it was too late to back out and he grabbed his flatmate by the shoulders and pushed him firmly into the seat. Not allowing for a retreat, he then closed the gap between them, allowing himself a moment to brush his nose against Sherlock's before pressing their lips together. Stars erupted behind John's closed eyelids, he began moving his lips, attempting to deepen the kiss but Sherlock sat there, unrelenting and jaw set. It wasn't exactly what John had been hoping for, after the initial excitement, he began to feel a sinking feeling, he was making all the effort, his hands had worked themselves into Sherlock's curls but he was the only one getting involved. Ever so slowly John eased back, removing his hands and standing up painfully straight, all the while with his eyes closed. He took a deep breath before opening them to whatever Sherlock's reaction was going to be.

Sherlock was sat in the exact same position that John had released him, he was frozen with his hands dangling by his side, his eyes were looking up at the ceiling, unblinking. If his chest hadn't been rising and falling with the intake and expulsion of air then he would have looked dead. It was an eerie image and it made John feel sick to his stomach, he was suddenly terrified, he had let his emotions and his desires get the best of him and he had thrown his own life and Sherlock's in total disarray

'Sherlock?'

Nothing

'Sherlock? Please, say something'

Still nothing

'Oh god Sherlock I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. I really don't know why I did it –'

'Don't you?' Sherlock had suddenly snapped back into life, he was now looking at John, frowning, his eyes darting all over him, lazering every inch of him. 'Do you really not know why you did that?'

John stuttered, he had to take another deep breath before proper words would come out

'Well, I, not exactly –'

' Then perhaps you shouldn't have done it.'

John was starting to get the impression he was being told off, Sherlock's voice was hard and unforgiving, he felt mortified, a lump appeared in this throat and he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and gave John another glance over before standing up, the height advantage gave him even more of a disciplinarian air and it wasn't pleasant.

' For example I would never engage in such a rash action without having a reason, perhaps it was an experiment? '

'No it's not like that, I wanted to, I think- I don't know-'

'Do you want to have sex with me?'

'WHAT? No!' He was being honest, he hadn't had an agenda, he wasn't trying to seduce his friend into bed, it was just an innocent kiss, it was all he'd wanted, well, he hadn't really given it a thought, and he hadn't let his mind wander into such forbidden territory. Sherlock had remained silent, John knew his face was betraying how fast his mind was working and he also knew that Sherlock's mind was moving faster and he would have to get his point across as quickly as possible

'Look Sherlock, its not like that, its not a sexual thing, for some reason I just got the urge to kiss you, nothing more, I didn't want to take your clothes off or anything like that, it was just a kiss. '

Sherlock blinked slowly before he spoke

'Why did you want to kiss me John?'

It was beginning to feel like interrogation and John was suffering enough internally, he had already been rejected; he didn't need the added humiliation of explaining himself. He tried to leave the room, eager to get to his room and curl up under the covers and, hopefully, die. Sherlock sidestepped in front of him, John was in no mood to be messed with

'Get out of my way Sherlock, I'm going to bed'

'Do you want me to come with you? Is that what you're asking for?'

Sherlock was seriously pushing Johns buttons now, he was being punished for letting his guard down and it wasn't fair, all he'd done is love him and he was making him suffer for it

'Leave me alone, just forget anything happened.' He pushed past his friend but a firm grip on his lower arm made him turn around

'Let me go Sherlock!'

'I can't do that John, I need to know exactly what was going through that fascinating head of yours'

'Stop mocking me Sherlock! Just let me go to my room. In fact, forget that, I'm going to Mary's'

'Wait, John. Please?' Sherlock's tone had changed, it was less clinical, it made John want to stay, he always had a soft spot for Sherlock's _'human' _voice. 'I need to know why you kissed me, it's important'

John ran his hand over his face and massaged his brow; his head was starting to hurt

'I need to know why you kissed me John' Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath and it caught his attention, he took his hand from in front of his face and looked up at his friend, Sherlock was steeling himself for something and John had no idea what it was, he just felt like his heart had stopped beating as Sherlock continued to speak

'Because if you did it because you feel something deeper for me with me then I can kiss you back knowing that I'm not the only one who has feelings that can't be ignored anymore.'

Whatever John had been expecting, it certainly wasn't that. He could feel his mouth drop open and he suspected he looked somewhat like a fish that had been thrown on the deck of a trawler, gasping for air. He needed to form some sort of words

'Sherlockwhatareyousaying?' It was more of a tumble of words than a sentence but it would have to do, a large, fluffy object seemed to have settled itself in John's brain. Sherlock looked in pain, his face was screwed up, his head drooped down and his fists were clenched

'What I am saying is that I have been experiencing emotion concerning you that I believe to be regarded as more than friendly and I need to know that you kissing me wasn't due to being an experiment, being bored, lonely or it having _been a while_.'

There was something in Sherlock's eyes as they met his own that caused the inside of John's stomach melt, he felt as though a calm was spreading throughout his body, down his limbs, it was an almost out of body experience but it made him feel strong. Seeing Sherlock so vulnerable and so utterly out of his comfort zone was, for some odd reason, extremely appealing. John didn't think it was a sadistic thing, he had a suspicion that he was the only person that had ever witnessed this man falling so beautifully apart, becoming unravelled, he was no longer arrogant or confident, he was raw and open and knowing that Sherlock trusted him to see it made Johns heart swell, and, he was alarmed to realise, his heart wasn't the only thing that was beginning to swell.

'Sherlock. I think you are amazing and wonderful and for some reason I want you to think that I am amazing and wonderful too. I kissed you because it is something I've wanted to do ever since I lost you, or I thought I had lost you. As soon as I found out you'd died kissing you seemed like the most important thing I ever missed out on.' John's throat had gone tight, he was pretty certain he wouldn't be able to explain this without crying, which made it so difficult to continue, but continue he did. 'I never really believed you were dead because I couldn't bring myself to realise that I'd never get to kiss you or that you'd never know how I felt. But then when you came back I didn't want to ruin everything, I had you back and for a while that was all that mattered. I denied it, and lied to everyone, even myself, I convinced myself that I only ever wanted you when I lost you, but the truth is I've wanted to grab you and kiss you for so long, fighting that urge has just become a part of my life.' The tears had started rolling down his cheeks, it hadn't been the first time he'd cried in front of his best friend but it was important that his words meant more than his tears could show. 'I don't know why I finally decided to act on how I feel but I know that I kissed you because I am completely, ridiculously, undeniably in love with you.'

John had definitely ran out of breath by the time he managed to force out the last syllable, luckily however, Sherlock had decided it was prudent to give him immediate mouth to mouth resuscitation. Sherlock's arm stretched over Johns shoulder and slammed the door to the hallway shut, before pushing him against him and kissing him fiercely; it definitely wasn't like the first time, it was hungry and passionate, like he was trying to draw a life force from John that could only taken by making his heart and head explode simultaneously. Even out of breath John didn't need telling twice to reciprocate fervently, the combination of both men having a desperate need to claim the other meant that it was a lip crushing, sometimes teeth colliding moment, but it neither of them would trade it for the world, for the first time in their lives they felt completely free and unrestrained by any boundaries, they were encapsulated in that moment, the whole world could burn and there eyelids would not have even flickered. It was intense but it was innocent, neither of them had any intension of stepping up the heat, they were in new territory and it needed to be thoroughly explored before anything more could happen, and they both relished the exploration.

Eventually they broke apart, not even Sherlock could calculate how long they had been connected, how long his hand had been on the back of Johns neck, or how long Johns hands had clutched at the front of his shirt. His mind was blissfully quiet, but as he slowly opened his eyes the noise of the world came roaring back into his brain, but for those few moments he had been at peace. _Interesting_ he thought.

John followed suit and also opened his eyes, releasing his grasp on Sherlock's shirt, he had left a creases where he had clutched tightly with sweating hands. He wanted to apologise but he had no strength left to speak, just to grin, as wide as he ever had, it almost hurt to do so. Sherlock was most taken aback

'What's the smile for? I've never seen you smile like that.' He removed his hand from the back of Johns head, sliding it across his cheek as he did so, the smile widened,

'You've never kissed me like that.' John looked down nervously, he suddenly felt very exposed, he had exposed his very core and it was a leap of faith, he was currently hurtling through the air with no clear landing platform, only a long possible drop.

'I've never kissed anyone like that John. I've never loved anyone like this before.'

John's leap of faith paid off, he had landed, safe and warm in Sherlock's waiting arms, his soul still soared high above, and explosion of joy.

'I know you're still high on endorphins but could we maybe get back onto the case? Before anyone else dies, I know how much that kind of thing bothers you.' Sherlock was eager to get back to work, not because he didn't want to carry on kissing John but because he knew he could do it every day until the end of forever if he didn't distract himself. He hoped John understood.

'Of course. I think we need to process what just happened anyway, taking our mind of it for a bit might be a good thing before we get carried away.' He still couldn't stop grinning.

Sherlock started grinning too, obviously John understood. John loved him.

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><p>End of Part One!<p>

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><p><strong>:O what do you think? 3<strong>


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